I  .WITH  THE 


IN  CONNECTION 
lillllGHBY  CLAIN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 

GIFT  OF 

THE  PIERCE  FAMILY 


A  SPECIAL    LIMITED  EDITION 

IN  CONNECTION 

WITH  THE 

DEWILLOUGHBY  CLAIM 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 

AUTHOR    OF 
**A  LADY  OF  QUALITY,"    "LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY,"  ETC* 


THE  PEOPLE  S   LIBRARY 

Issued  Monthly 
By  THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMPANY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS'  AGENTS 
39-41    CHAMBERS   STREET 


COPYRIGHT,  1899 

BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
All  rights  reserved 


The  owners  of  the  copyright  of  this  volume  sanction  the 
issue  of  this  edition  as  a  paper-covered  book,  to  be  sold  at 
fifty  cents;  but,  while  not  wishing  to  interfere  with  any 
•purchaser  binding  his  own  copy,  they  do  not  sanction 
placing  on  the  market  any  volumes  of  this  edition  bound 
in  any  other  form. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 


CHAPTER   I 

HIGH  noon  at  Talbot's  Cross-roads,  with  the  mercury 
standing  at  ninety-eight  in  the  shade — though  there  was 
not  much  shade  worth  mentioning  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
of  the  Cross-roads  post-office,  about  which,  upon  the  occasion 
referred  to,  the  few  human  beings  within  sight  and  sound 
were  congregated.  There  were  trees  enough  a  few  hundred 
yards  away,  but  the  post-office  stood  Doldly  and  unflinchingly 
in  the  blazing  sun.  The  roads  crossing  each  other  stretched 
themselves  as  far  as  the  eye  could  follow  them,  the  red  clay 
transformed  into  red  dust  which  even  an  ordinarily  lively 
imagination  might  have  fancied  was  red  hot.  The  shrill, 
rattling  cry  of  the  grasshoppers,  hidden  in  the  long  yellow 
sedge-grass  and  drouth-smitten  corn,  pierced  the  stillness 
now  and  then  with  a  suddenness  startling  each  time  it  broke 
forth,  because  the  interval  between  each  of  the  pipings  was 
given  by  the  hearers  to  drowsiness  or  heated  unconscious 
naps. 

In  such  napping  and  drowsiness  the  present  occupants 
of  the  post-office  were  indulging.  Upon  two  empty  goods 
boxes  two  men  in  copperas-coloured  jean  garments  reclined 
in  easy  attitudes,  their  hats  tilted  over  their  eyes,  while  sev- 

1 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

eral  others  balanced  their  split-seated  chairs  against  the 
house  or  the  post-porch  and  dozed. 

Inside  the  store  the  postmaster  and  proprietor  tilted  his 
chair  against  the  counter  and  dozed  also,  though  fitfully,  and 
with  occasional  restless  changes  of  position  and  smothered 
maledictions  against  the  heat.  He  was  scarcely  the  build  of 
man  to  sleep  comfortably  at  high  noon  in  midsummer.  His 
huge,  heavy  body  was  rather  too  much  for  him  at  any  time, 
but  during  the  hot  weather  he  succumbed  beneath  the  weight 
of  his  own  flesh.  Hamlin  County  knew  him  as  "  Big  Tom 
D'Willerby,"  and,  indeed,  rather  prided  itself  upon  him  as 
a  creditable  possession.  It  noted  any  increase  in  his  weight, 
repeated  his  jokes,  and  bore  itself  patiently  under  his  satire. 
His  indolence  it  regarded  with  leniency  not  entirely  untinged 
with  secret  exultation. 

"  The  derndest,  laziest  critter,"  his  acquaintances  would 
remark  to  each  other)  "  the  derndest  I  do  reckon  that  ever 
the  Lord  made.  Nigli  unto  three  hundred  he  weighs,  and 
never  done  a  lick  o'  work  in  his  life.  Not  one!  Lord,  no! 
Tom  D'Willerby  work?  I  guess  not.  He  gits  on  fine  with- 
out any  o'  that  in  his'n.  Work  ain't  hie  kind.  It's  a  pleasin' 
sight  to  see  him  lyin'  round  thar  to  the  post-office  an'  the 
boys  a-waitin'  on  to  him,  dojn'  his  tradin'  for  him,  an'  sortin' 
the  mail  when  it  comes  in.  They're  ready  enough  to  do  it 
jest  to  hear  him  gas." 

And  so  they  were.  About  eight  years  before  the  time  the 
present  story  commences,  he  had  appeared  upon  the  scene 
apparently  having  no  object  in  view  but  to  make  himself 
as  comfortable  as  possible.  He  took  up  his  quarters  at  one 
of  the  farm-houses  among  the  mountains,  paid  his  hostess 
regularly  for  the  simple  accommodations  she  could  afford 
him,  and,  before  three  months  passed,  had  established  his 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

reputation  and,  without  making  the  slightest  apparent  effort, 
had  gathered  about  him  a  large  circle  of  friends  and  admirers. 

"  His  name's  D'Willerby,"  Mrs.  Pike  would  drawl  when 
questioned  about  him,,  ".an*  he's  kin  to  them  D'Willerbys 
that's  sich  big  bugs  down  to  D'Lileville.  I  guess  they  ain't 
much  friendly,  though.  He  don't  seem  to  like  to  have  noth- 
in'  much  to  say  about  'em.  Seems  like  he  has  money  a-plenty 
to  carry  him  along,  an'  he  talks  some  o'  settin'  up  a  store 
somewhars." 

In  the  course  of  a  month  or  so  he  carried  out  the  plan, 
selecting  Talbot's  Cross-roads  as  the  site  for  the  store  in 
question.  He  engaged  hands  to  erect  a  frame  building, 
collected  by  the  .assistance  of  some  mysterious  agency  a 
heterogeneous  stock  consisting  of  calicoes,  tinware,  coffee, 
sugar,  tobacco,  and  various  waif  and  stray  commodities,  and, 
having  done  so,  took  his  seat  on  the  porch  one  morning  and 
announced  the  establishment  open. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  enterprise  was  a  success.  Barnesville 
was  fifteen  miles  distant,  and  the  farmers,  their  wives  and 
daughters,  were  glad  enough  to  stop  at  the  Cross-roads  for 
their  calico  dresses  and  store-coffee.  By  doing  so  they  were 
saved  a  long  ride  and  gained  superior  conversational  advan- 
tages. "  D'Willerby's  mighty  easy  to  trade  with,"  it  was 
said. 

There  was  always  a  goodly  number  of  "  critters  "  tied  to 
the  fence-corners,  and  consequently  to  business  was  added 
the  zest  of  society  and  the  interchanging  of  gossip.  "  D'Wil- 
lerby's "  became  a  centre  of  interest  and  attraction,  and 
D'Willerby  himself  a  county  institution. 

Big  Tom,  however,  studiously  avoided  taking  a  too  active 
part  in  the  duties  of  the  establishment.  Having  with  great 
forethought  provided  himself  with  a  stout  chair  which  could 

3 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

be  moved  from  behind  the  counter  to  the  door,  and  from 
the  door  to  the  store  as  the  weather  demanded,  he  devoted 
himself  almost  exclusively  to  sitting  in  it  and  encouraging 
a  friendly  and  accommodating  spirit  in  his  visitors  and  ad- 
mirers. The  more  youthful  of  those  admirers  he  found  use- 
ful in  the  extreme. 

"Boys,"  he  would  say,  "a  man  can't  do  more  than  a 
thousand  things  at  once.  A  man  can't  talk  a  steady  stream 
and  do  himself  justice,  and  settle  the  heftiest  kind  of  ques- 
tions, and  say  the  kind  of  things  these  ladies  ought  to  have 
said  to  'em,  and  then  measure  out  molasses  and  weigh  coffee 
and  slash  off  calico  dresses  and  trade  for  eggs.  Some  of 
you've  got  to  roust  out  and  do  some  clerking,  or  I've  got 
to  quit.  I've  not  got  the  constitution  to  stand  it.  Jim,  you 
'tend  to  Mis'  Pike,  and  Bill,  you  wait  on  Mis'  Jones.  Lord! 
Lord!  half  a  dozen  of  you  here,  and  not  one  doing  a  thing 
— not  a  derned  thing!  Do  you  want  me  to  get  up  and  leave 
Miss  Mirandy  and  do  things  myself?  We've  got  to  settle 
about  the  colour  of  this  gown.  How'd  you  feel  now,  if  it 
wasn't  becoming  to  her  complexion?  Just  help  yourself 
to  that  plug  of  tobacco,  Hance,  and  lay  your  ten  cents  in 
the  cash  drawer,  and  then  you  can  weigh  out  that  butter  of 
Mis'  Simpson's." 

When  there  was  a  prospect  of  a  post-office  at  the  Cross- 
roads, there  was  only  one  opinion  as  to  who  was  the  man  best 
calculated  to  adorn  the  position  of  postmaster. 

"  The  store's  right  yere,  Tom,"  said  his  patrons,  "  an' 
you're  right  yere.  Ye  can  write  and  spell  off  things  'thout 
any  trouble,  an'  I  reckon  ye  wouldn't  mind  the  extry  two 
dollars  comin'  in  ev'ry  month." 

"Lord!  Lord!"  groaned  Tom,  who  was  stretched  full 
length  on  the  floor  of  the  porch  when  the  subject  was  first 

4 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

broached.  "  Do  you  want  a  man  to  kill  himself  out  an'  out, 
boys?  Work  himself  into  eternal  kingdom  come?  Who'd 
do  the  extra  work,  I'd  like  to  know — empty  out  the  mail-bag 
and  hand  out  the  mail,  and  do  the  extra  cussin'?  That 
.would  be  worth  ten  dollars  a  month.  And,  like  as  not,  the 
money  would  be  paid  in  cheques,  and  who's  goin'  to  sign 
?em?  Lord!  I  believe  you  think  a  man's  immortal  soul 
could  be  bought  for  fifty  cents  a  day.  You  don't  allow  for 
the  wear  and  tear  on  a  fellow's  constitution,  boys." 

But  he  allowed  himself  to  be  placed  in  receipt  of  the 
official  salary  in  question,  and  the  matter  of  extra  labour 
settled  itself.  Twice  a  week  a  boy  on  horseback  brought 
the  mail-bag  from  Barnesville,  and  when  this  youth  drew 
rein  before  the  porch  Big  Tom  greeted  him  from  indoors 
with  his  habitual  cordiality. 

" 'Light,  sonny,  'light!"  he  would  call  out  in  languidly 
sonorous  tones;  "come  in  and  let  these  fellows  hear  the 
news.  Just  throw  that  mail-bag  on  the  counter  and  let's 
hear  from  you.  Plenty  of  good  water  down  at  the  spring. 
Might  as  well  take  that  bucket  and  fill  it  if  you  want  a  drink. 
I've  been  waiting  for  just  such  a  man  as  you  to  do  it.  These 
fellows  would  sit  here  all  day  and  let  a  man  die.  I  can't  get 
anything  out  of  'em.  I've  about  half  a  mind  to  quit  some- 
times and  leave  them  to  engineer  the  thing  themselves.  Look 
here  now,  is  any  fellow  going  to  attend  to  that  mail,  or  is 
it  going  to  lie  there  till  I  have  to  get  up  and  attend  to 
it  myself?  I  reckon  that's  what  you  want.  I  reckon  that  'd 
just  suit  you.  Jehoshaphat !  I  guess  you'd  like  me  to  take 
charge  of  the  eternal  universe." 

It  was  for  the  mail  he  waited  with  his  usual  complement 
of  friends  and  assistants  on  the  afternoon  referred  to  at  the 
opening  of  this  chapter.  The  boy  was  behind  time,  and, 

5 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

under  the  influence  of  the  heat,  conversation  had  at  first 
flagged  and  then  subsided.  Big  Tom  himself  had  taken 
the  initiative  of  dropping  into  a  doze,  and  his  companions 
had  one  by  one  followed  his  example,  or  at  least  made  an 
effort  at  doing  so.  The  only  one  of  the  number  who  re- 
mained unmistakably  awake  was  a  little  man  who  sat  on 
the  floor  of  the  end  of  the  porch,  his  small  legs,  encased 
in  large  blue  jean  pantaloons,  dangling  over  the  side.  This 
little  man,  who  was  gently  and  continuously  ruminating, 
with  brief  " asides"  of  expectoration,  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
watchfully  upon  the  Barnesville  Road,  and  he  it  was  who 
at  last  roused  the  dozers. 

"  Thar's  some  un  a-comin',"  he  announced  in  a  meek  voice. 
"  'Tain't  him." 

Big  Tom  opened  his  eyes,  stretched  himself,  and  gradually 
rose  in  his  might,  proving  a  very  tight  fit  for  the  establish- 
ment, especially  the  doorway,  towards  which  he  lounged, 
supporting  himself  against  its  side. 

"Who  is  it,  Ezra?"  he  asked,  almost  extinguishing  the 
latter  cognomen  with  a  yawn. 

"It's  thet  thar  feller!" 

All  the  other  men  awakened  in  a  body.  Whomsoever  the 
individual  might  be,  he  had  the  power  to  rouse  them  to 
a  lively  exhibition  of  interest.  One  and  all  braced  them- 
selves to  look  at  the  horseman  approaching  along  the  Barnes- 
ville Road. 

"  He's  a  kinder  curi's-lookin'  feller,"  observed  one  philos- 
opher. 

66  Well,  at  a  distance  of  half  a  mile,  perhaps  he  is,"  said 
Tom.  "  In  a  cloud  of  dust  and  the  sun  blazin'  down  on  him 
like  thunderation,  I  don't  know  but  you're  right,  Nath." 

"  Git  out!  "  replied  Nath,  placidly.  "  He's  a  curi's-actin' 

6 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

feller,  anyway.  Don't  go  nowhar  nor  hev  nothin'  to  say 
to  nobody.  Jest  sets  right  down  in  that  thar  holler  with 
his  wife,  as  if  b'ars  an'  painters  wus  all  a  man  or  woman 
wanted  round  'em/' 

"  She's  a  doggoned  purty  critter/'  said  the  little  man  in 
large  trousers,  placidly.  He  had  not  appeared  to  listen  to 
the  conversation,  but,  as  this  pertinent  remark  proved,  it 
had  not  been  lost  on  him. 

His  observation  was  greeted  with  a  general  laugh,  which 
seemed  to  imply  that  the  speaker  had  a  character  which  his 
speech  sustained. 

"  Whar  did  ye  see  her,  Stamps?  "  was  asked. 

The  little  man  remained  unmoved,  still  dangling  his  legs 
over  the  porch  side,  still  ruminating,  still  gazing  with  pale, 
blinking  eyes  up  the  road. 

"  Went  over  the  mountain  to  'tend  court  to  Bakersville, 
an'  took  it  on  my  road  to  go  by  thar.  She  was  settin'  in 
the  door,  an'  I  see  her  afore  she  seen  me.  When  she  hearn 
the  sound  of  my  mule's  feet,  she  got  up  an'  went  into  the 
house.  It  was  a  powerful  hot  mornin',  'n'  I  wus  mighty  dry, 
'n'  I  stopped  fur  a  cool  drink.  She  didn't  come  out  when 
fust  I  hollered,  'n'  when  she  did  come,  she  looked  kinder 
skcered  'n'  wouldn't  talk  none.  Kep'  her  simbonnet  over 
her  face,  like  she  didn't  want  to  be  seen  overmuch." 

"  What  does  she  look  like,  Ezry? "  asked  one  of  the 
younger  men. 

Mr.  Stamps  meditated  a  few  seconds. 

"  Don't  look  like  none  o'  the  women  folk  about  yere,"  he 
replied,  finally.  "  She  ain't  their  kind." 

"  What  d'ye  mean  by  that?  " 

"  Dunno  eggsactly.  She's  mighty  white  'n'  young-lookin' 
V  delicate— but  that  ain't  all." 

7 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Tom  made  a  restless  movement. 

"  Look  here,  boys,"  he  broke  in,  suddenly,  "  here's  a 
business — a  lot  of  fellows  asking  questions  about  a  woman 
an'  gossiping  as  if  there  wasn't  a  thing  better  to  do.  Leave 
?em  alone,  if  they  want  to  be  left  alone — leave  'em  alone." 

Mr.  Stamps  expectorated  in  an  entirely  unbiassed  manner. 
He  seemed  as  willing  to  leave  his  story  alone  as  he  had  been 
to  begin  it. 

"  He's  comin'  yere,"  he  said,  softly,  after  a  pause.  "  Thet's 
whar  he's  comin'." 

The  rest  of  the  company  straightened  themselves  in  their 
seats  and  made  an  effort  to  assume  the  appearance  of  slightly 
interested  spectators.  It  became  evident  that  Mr.  Stamps 
was  right,  and  that  the  rider  was  about  to  dismount. 

He  was  a  man  about  thirty  years  of  age,  thin,  narrow- 
chested,  and  stooping.  His  coarse  clothes  seemed  specially 
ill-suited  to  his  slender  figure,  his  black  hair  was  long,  and 
his  beard  neglected;  his  broad  hat  was  pulled  low  over  his 
eyes  and  partially  concealed  his  face. 

"  He  don't  look  none  too  sociable  when  he's  nigher  than 
half  a  mile,"  remarked  Nath  in  an  undertone. 

He  glanced  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left  as  he  strode 
past  the  group  into  the  store.  Strange  to  relate,  Tom  had 
lounged  behind  the  counter  and  stood  ready  to  attend  him. 
He  asked  for  a  few  necessary  household  trifles  in  a  low  tone, 
and,  as  Tom  collected  and  made  them  into  a  clumsy  package, 
he  stood  and  looked  on  with  his  back  turned  towards  the 
door. 

Those  gathered  upon  the  porch  listened  eagerly  for  the 
sound  of  conversation,  but  none  reached  their  ears.  Tom 
moved  heavily  to  and  fro  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the 
parcel  was  handed  across  the  counter. 

8 


In  Connection  with. 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Hot  weather/'  said  the  stranger,  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"  Yes/'  said  Tom,  "  hot  weather,  sir." 

"  Good-day/'  said  the  stranger. 

"  Good-day/'  answered  Tom. 

And  his  customer  took  his  departure.  He  passed  out  as 
he  had  passed  in;  but  while  he  was  indoors  little  Mr.  Stamps 
had  changed  his  position.  He  now  sat  near  the  wooden  steps, 
his  legs  dangling  as  before,  his  small  countenance  as  non- 
committal as  ever.  As  the  stranger  neared  him,  he  raised 
his  pale  little  eyes,  blinked  them,  indulged  in  a  slight  jerk 
of  the  head,  and  uttered  a  single  word  of  greeting. 

"  Howdy?  " 

The  stranger  started,  glanced  down  at  him,  and  walked  on. 
He  made  no  answer,  untied  his  horse,  mounted  it,  and  rode 
back  over  the  Barnesville  Road  towards  the  mountain. 

Mr.  Stamps  remained  seated  near  the  steps  and  blinked 
after  him  silently  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"  Ye  didn't  seem  to  talk  none,  D'Willerby,"  said  one  of 
the  outsiders  when  Tom  reappeared. 

Tom  sank  into  his  chair,  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  stretched  his  limbs  out  to  their  fullest  capacity. 

"  Let  a  man  rest,  boys,"  he  said,  "  let  a  man  rest! "  . 

He  was  silent  for  some  time  afterwards,  and  even  on  the 
arrival  of  the  mail  was  less  discursive  than  usual.  It  was 
Mr.  Stamps  who  finally  aroused  him  from  his  reverie. 

Having  obtained  his  mail — one  letter  in  a  legal-looking 
envelope — and  made  all  other  preparations  to  return  to  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  Stamps  sidled  up  to  the  counter,  and, 
leaning  over  it,  spoke  in  an  insinuatingly  low  tone: 

"  She  was  bar'foot/'  he  said,  mildly,  "  'n'  she  hadn't  been 
raised  to  it — that  was  one  thing.  Her  feet  wus  as  soft  'n' 
tender  as  a  baby's;  'n'  fur  another  thing,  her  hands  wus 

9 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  WilloUghby  Claim 

as  white  as  her  face,  V  whiter.    Thet  ain't  the  way  we  raise 
'em  in  Hamlin  County — that's  all." 

And,  having  said  it,  he  slipped  out  of  the  store,  mounted 
his  mule,  and  jogged  homeward  on  the  Barnesville  Eoad 
also. 


CHAPTER   II 

BEFOKE  the  war  there  were  no  people  better  known  or 
more  prominent  in  their  portion  of  the  State  than  the  De 
Willoughbys  of  Delisle  County,  Tennessee.  To  have  been 
born  a  De  Willoughby  was,  in  general  opinion,  to  have  been 
born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  one's  mouth.  It  was  indeed  to 
have  been  born  to  social  dignity,  fortune,  courage,  and  more 
than  the  usual  allowance  of  good  looks.  And  though  the 
fortune  was  lavishly  spent,  the  courage  sometimes  betrayed 
into  a  rather  theatrical  dare-deviltry,  and  the  good  looks 
prone  to  deteriorate  in  style,  there  was  always  the  social  po- 
sition left,  and  this  was  a  matter  of  the  deepest  importance 
in  Delisleville.  The  sentiments  of  Delisleville  were  purely 
patrician.  It  was  the  county  town,  and  contained  six  thou- 
sand inhabitants,  two  hotels,  and  a  court-house.  It  had  also 
two  or  three  business  streets  and  half  a  dozen  churches,  all 
very  much  at  odds  with  each  other  and  each  seriously  in- 
clined to  disbelieve  in  the  probable  salvation  of  the  rest. 
The  "  first  families  "  (of  which  there  were  eight  or  ten,  with 
numerous  branches)  attended  the  Episcopal  Church,  the  sec- 
ond best  the  Presbyterian,  while  the  inferior  classes,  who 
could  scarcely  be  counted  at  all,  since  they  had  not  been 
born  in  Delisleville,  drifted  to  the  Methodists. 

The  De  Willoughbys  attended  the  Episcopal  Church,  and, 
being  generally  endowed  with  voices,  two  or  three  of  them 
sang  in  the  choir,  which  was  composed  entirely  of  members 

11 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

of  the  attending  families  and  executed  most  difficult  music 
in  a  manner  which  was  the  cause  after  each  service  of  much 
divided  opinion.  Opinion  was  divided  because  the  choir  was 
divided — separated,  in  fact,  into  several  small,  select  cliques, 
each  engaged  in  deadly  and  bitter  feud  with  the  rest.  When 
the  moon-eyed  soprano  arose,  with  a  gentle  flutter,  and 
opened  her  charming  mouth  in  solo,  her  friends  settled 
themselves  in  their  pews  with  a  general  rustle  of  satisfaction, 
while  the  friends  of  the  contralto  exchanged  civilly  signifi- 
cant glances;  and  on  the  way  home  the  solo  in  question  was 
disposed  of  in  a  manner  at  once  thorough  and  final.  The 
same  thing  occurred  when  the  contralto  was  prominent,  or 
the  tenor,  or  the  baritone,  or  the  basso,  each  of  whom  it  was 
confidently  asserted  by  competent  Delisleville  judges  might 
have  rendered  him  or  herself  and  Delisleville  immortal 
upon  the  lyric  stage  if  social  position  had  not  placed  the 
following  of  such  a  profession  entirely  out  of  the  question. 
There  had  indeed  been  some  slight  trouble  in  one  or  two 
of  the  best  families,  occasioned  by  the  musical  fervour  of 
youthful  scions  who  were  in  danger  of  being  led  into  in- 
discretions by  their  enthusiasm. 

The  De  Willoughbys  occupied  one  of  the  most  prominent 
pews  in  the  sacred  edifice  referred  to.  Judge  De  Willoughby, 
a  large,  commanding  figure,  with  a  fine  sweep  of  long  hair, 
mustache  and  aquiline  profile;  Mrs.  De  Willoughby  (who 
had  been  a  Miss  Vanuxem  of  South  Carolina),  slender,  wil- 
lowy, with  faded  brunette  complexion  and  still  handsome 
brunette  eyes,  and  three  or  four  little  De  Willoughbys,  all 
more  or  less  pretty  and  picturesque.  These  nearly  filled  the 
pew.  The  grown-up  Misses  De  Willoughby  sang  with  two 
of  their  brothers  in  the  choir.  There  were  three  sons,  Eo- 
maine,  De  Courcy,  and  Thomas.  But  Thomas  did  not  sing 

13 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

in  the  choir.  Thomas,  alas!  did  not  sing  at  all.  Thomas, 
it  was  universally  conceded  by  every  De  Willoughby  of  the 
clan,  was  a  dismal  failure.  Even  from  his  earliest  boyhood, 
when  he  had  been  a  huge,  overgrown  fellow,  whose  only 
redeeming  qualities  were  his  imperturbable  good-humor  and 
his  ponderous  wit,  his  family  had  regarded  him  with  a  sense 
of  despair.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  too  big.  His  brothers 
were  tall,  lithe-limbed  youths,  who  were  graceful,  dark-eyed, 
dark-haired,  and  had  a  general  air  of  brilliancy.  They  fig- 
ured well  at  college  and  in  their  world;  they  sang  and  danced 
in  a  manner  which,  combining  itself  with  the  name  of  De 
Willoughby,  gave  them  quite  an  ennobled  sort  of  distinction, 
a  touch  of  patrician  bravado  added  to  their  picturesqueness 
in  the  eyes  of  the  admiring;  and  their  little  indiscretions 
were  of  a  nature  to  be  ignored  or  treated  with  gentle  con- 
sideration as  the  natural  result  of  their  youth,  spirit,  and 
Southern  blood.  But  at  nineteen  Thomas  had  attained  a 
height  of  six  feet  five,  with  a  proportionate  breadth  and 
ponderousness.  His  hands  and  feet  were  a  disgrace  to  a  De 
Willoughby,  and  his  voice  was  a  roar  when  he  was  influenced 
by  anything  like  emotion.  Displays  of  emotion,  however, 
were  but  rare  occurrences  with  him.  He  was  too  lazy  to  be 
roused  to  anger  or  any  other  violent  feeling.  He  spent  his 
leisure  hours  in  lying  upon  sofas  or  chairs  and  getting  very 
much  in  everybody's  way.  He  lounged  through  school  and 
college  without  the  slightest  eclat  attending  his  progress. 

It  became  the  pastime  of  the  household  to  make  rather 
a  butt  of  him,  and  for  the  most  part  he  bore  himself  under 
the  difficulties  of  his  position  peaceably  enough,  though 
there  had  been  times  when  his  weighty  retorts  had  caused 
some  sharp  wincing. 

"You're  an  ill-natured  devil,  Tom"  his  brother  De 

13 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Courcy  said  to  him,  as  he  stood  fingering  the  ornaments 
on  the  mantel  after  one  such  encounter.  "  You're  an  ill- 
natured  devil." 

Tom  was  stretched  on  a  sofa,  with  his  big  hands  under 
his  head,  and  did  not  condescend  to  look  around. 

"  I'm  not  such  a  thundering  fool  as  you  take  me  for,  that's 
all,"  he  answered.  "  I've  got  my  eyes  open.  Keep  to  your 
side  of  the  street,  and  I  will  keep  to  mine." 

It  was  true  that  he  had  his  eyes  open  and  had  more  wit 
and  feeling  than  they  gave  him  credit  for.  No  one  under- 
stood him,  not  even  his  mother,  who  had  deplored  him  from 
the  first  hour  of  his  over-weighted  babyhood,  when  she  had 
given  him  over  to  the  care  of  his  negro  nurse  in  despair. 

In  the  midst  of  a  large  family  occupied  with  all  the  small 
gaieties  attendant  upon  popularity  and  social  distinction  in 
a  provincial  town,  he  lived  a  lonely  life,  and  one  not  without 
its  pathetic  side  if  it  had  been  so  looked  upon.  But  even 
he  himself  had  never  regarded  the  matter  from  a  sentimental 
point  of  view.  He  endeavoured  to  resign  himself  to  his  fate 
and  meet  it  philosophically. 

"I  wasn't  cut  out  for  this  sort  of  thing,  boys,"  he  had 
said  to  his  friends  at  college,  where  he  had  been  rather  popu- 
lar. "  I  wasn't  cut  out  for  it.  Go  ahead  and  leave  me 
» behind.  I'm  not  a  bad  sort  of  fellow,  but  there  is  too  much 
of  me  in  one  way  and  too  little  in  another.  What  the  Lord 
made  such  a  man  as  me  for  after  six  thousand  years'  experi- 
ence, I  haven't  found  out  yet.  A  man  may  as  well  make  up 
his  mind  about  himself  first  as  last.  I've  made  up  mine  and 
nobody  differs  from  me  so  far  as  I've  gone." 

When  he  left  college  his  brothers  had  already  chosen  their 
vocations.  Delisle  County  knew  them  as  promising  young 
lawyers,  each  having  distinguished  himself  with  much  fiery 

14 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

eloquence  in  an  occasional  case.  The  cases  had  not  always 
been  gained,  but  the  fervour  and  poetry  of  the  appeals  to 
the  rather  muddled  and  startled  agriculturists  who  formed 
the  juries  were  remembered  with  admiration  and  as  being 
worthy  of  Delisleville,  and  were  commented  upon  in  the 
Delisleville  Oriflamme  as  the  "  fit  echoings  of  an  eloquence 
long  known  in  our  midst  as  the  birthright  of  those  bearing 
one  of  our  proudest  names,  an  eloquence  spurred  to  its  eagle 
flights  by  the  warm,  chivalric  blood  of  a  noble  race." 

But  the  "  warm,  chivalric  blood  "  of  the  race  in  question 
seemed  to  move  but  slowly  in  veins  of  its  most  substantial 
representative.  The  inertness  of  his  youngest  son  roused 
that  fine  old  Southern  gentleman  and  well-known  legal  dig- 
nitary, Judge  De  Willoughby,  to  occasional  outbursts  of  the 
fiery  eloquence  before  referred  to  which  might  well  have 
been  productive  of  remarkable  results. 

"  Good  God,  sir!  "  he  would  trumpet  forth,  "  good  God, 
sir!  have  we  led  the  State  for  generation  after  generation 
to  be  disgraced  and  degraded  and  dragged  in  the  dust  by 
one  of  our  own  stock  at  last?  The  De  Willoughbys  have 
been  gentlemen,  sir,  distinguished  at  the  bar,  in  politics, 
and  in  the  highest  social  circles  of  the  South;  and  here  we 
have  a  De  Willoughby  whose  tastes  would  be  no  credit  to — 
to  his  overseer,  a  De  Willoughby  who  has  apparently  neither 
the  ambition  nor  the  qualification  to  shine  in  the  sphere  in 
which  he  was  born!  Blow  your  damned  brains  out,  if  you 
have  any;  blow  your  damned  brains  out,  and  let's  have  an 
end  of  the  whole  disgraceful  business." 

This  referred  specially  to  Tom's  unwillingness  to  enter 
upon  the  study  of  medicine,  which  had  been  chosen  for 
him. 

"  I  should  make  a  better  farmer,"  he  said,  bitterly,  after 

15 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

a  prolonged  discussion.  "  I'm  not  the  build  for  women's 
bedrooms  and  children's  bedsides.  De  Courcy  would  hav^ 
suited  you  better." 

"  De  Courcy  is  a  gentleman — a  gentleman,  sir!  He  war 
born  one  and  would  shine  in  any  profession  a  gentleman 
may  adorn.  As  for  you,  this  is  the  only  thing  left  for  you, 
and  you  shall  try  it,  by  G !  " 

"  Oh/'  said  Tom,  "  I'll  try  it.  I  can  only  fail,  and  I've 
done  that  before." 

He  did  try  it  forthwith,  applying  himself  to  his  studies 
with  a  persistence  quite  creditable.  He  read  lying  upon 
sofas  and  lounging  in  the  piazzas,  and  in  course  of  time  was 
sent  to  attend  lectures  in  Philadelphia. 

Whether  he  could  have  gained  his  diploma  or  not  was 
never  decided.  Those  of  the  professors  who  commented  on 
him  at  all,  spoke  of  him  as  slow  but  persevering,  and  re- 
garded him  rather  as  a  huge  receiving  machine  of  orderly 
habits.  The  Judge  began  to  congratulate  himself  upon  his 
determination,  and  his  mother  thought  it  "a  good  thing 
poor  Tom  was  disposed  of." 

But  one  terrible  morning  just  before  the  first  course  of 
lectures  was  completed,  he  suddenly  returned,  walking  into 
the  Judge's  office  without  any  previous  intimation  of  his 
intention. 

When  he  turned  in  his  seat  and  confronted  him,  the  Judge 
lost  his  breath. 

"You!  "he  cried;  "you!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  "  I've  come  back."  He  was  rather  pale 
and  nervous,  but  there  was  a  dogged,  resigned  look  in  his 
eyes.  "  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  he  added,  "  that  I  cannot 
stand  it.  Turn  me  loose  on  one  of  your  plantations  to — 
to  boss  niggers.  You  said  once  I  was  fit  for  an  overseer. 

16 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Perhaps  you  weren't  wrong.     Say  the  word  and  I'll  start 
to-morrow." 

The  Judge's  aquiline  countenance  turned  gray  with  fury. 
His  fine  mustache  seemed  to  curl  itself  anew, 
i      "  You — you  accursed  scoundrel!  "  he  gasped.    "  You  ac- 
'cursed,  underbred  hound!    Tell  me  what  this  means,  or  I'll 
strangle  you." 

"  You'll  say  I'm  a  fool,"  said  Tom,  "  and  I  suppose  it's 

true,  and — and "  with -a  tremour  in  his  voice,  "  I've  no 

need  to  be  particular  about  the  names  you  call  me.    I  ought 
to  be  used  to  them  by  this  time." 

"Speak  out,"  thundered  the  Judge,  "and  tell  me  the 
whole  disgraceful  truth! " 

"  It  won't  take  long,"  said  Tom;  "  I  told  it  when  I  said 
I'd  made  up  my  mind  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I've  been  walking 
the  hospitals  and  attending  the  clinics  for  the  last  three 
months,  and  I've  had  a  chance  to  see  what  my  life  would 
be  if  I  went  through.  I've  seen  things  to  make  a  man 
tremble  when  they  came  back  to  him  in  the  dead  of  night — 
agony  and  horror — women  and  children!  Good  Lord!  I 
can't  tell  you.  De  Courcy  could,  but  I  can't.  I'd  rather 
be  in  hell  than  live  such  a  life  day  after  day.  I  tried  to 
stand  up  against  it  at  first.  I  thought  I  might  get  used  to 
it,  but  I  haven't  the  nerve — or  something  was  wrong.  It 
got  worse  and  worse,  until  I  used  to  start  up  out  of  my  sleep 
in  a  cold  sweat,  hearing  screams  and  groans  and  prayers. 
That  was  the  worst  of  all — their  prayers  to  us  to  help  them 
and  not  to  hurt  them.  Four  days  ago  a  child  was  brought 
in — a  child  four  or  five  years  old.  There  was  an  operation 
to  be  performed,  and  I  was  the  man  chosen  to  hold  it  still. 
Its  mother  was  sent  out  of  the  room.  My  God!  how  it 
screamed  when  it  saw  her  go  and  knew  it  was  to  be  left 

17 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

to  us.  They  told  me  to  hold  it  because  I  was  the  strongest, 
and — and  I  put  my  hands  on  it.  Fm  a  big  fellow  to  look 
at,  and  I  suppose  it  knew  there  was  no  help  for  it  when 
I  came  near.  It  turned  as  white  as  death  and  looked  up 
at  me  with  the  tears  streaming  down  its  face.  Before  the 
operation  was  half  over  it  hadn't  the  strength  left  to  scream 
or  struggle,  and  it  lay  and  looked  at  me  and  moaned.  I 
should  have  given  up  the  job,  but  somehow  I  couldn't  make 
up  my  mind  to — to  leave  it.  When  it  was  all  done,  I  gave 
it  back  to  its  mother  and  went  to  my  rooms.  I  turned  sick 
on  the  way  and  had  to  sit  down  to  rest.  I  swore  then  I'd 
let  the  thing  drop,  and  I  bought  my  ticket  and  came  back. 
Fm  not  the  man  for  the  work.  Better  men  may  do  it — 
perhaps  it  takes  better  men.  I'm  not  up  to  it."  And  his 
shaken  voice  broke  as  he  hung  his  great  head. 

A  deadly  calm  settled  upon  the  Judge.  He  pointed  to 
the  door. 

"Go  home  to  your  mother,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I've  done  with 
you.  Go  and  stay  with  the  women.  That's  the  place  for 
you." 

"  He's  a  coward  as  well  as  a  fool,"  he  said  afterwards  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family;  "  a  white-livered  fool  who  hasn't 
the  nerve  to  look  at  a  sick  child." 

It  was  a  terrible  day  for  the  household,  but  at  last  it  was 
over.  Tom  went  to  his  room  in  an  apathy.  He  had  been 
buffeted  and  scorned  and  held  up  to  bitter  derision  until 
he  had  ceased  to  feel  anything  but  a  negative,  helpless  mis- 
ery. 

About  a  week  later  Delia  Vanuxem  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  Delia  Vanuxem  was  a  young  cousin  of  Mrs.  De 
Willoughby's,  and  had  come  to  pay  her  relatives  a  visit. 
It  was  the  hospitable  custom  of  Delisleville  to  cultivate  its 

18 


In  Connection  with 

The    De  Willoughby  Claim 

kinsfolk — more  especially  its  kinswomen.  There  were  al- 
ways in  two  or  three  of  the  principal  families  young  lady 
guests  who  were  during  their  stay  in  the  town  the  sensa- 
tion of  the  hour.  Novelty  established  them  as  temporary 
belles;  they  were  petted  by  their  hostesses,  attended  by 
small  cohorts  of  admirers,  and  formed  ~the  centre  for 
a  round  of  festivities  specially  arranged  to  enliven  their 
visits. 

Delia  Yanuxem  bore  away  the  palm  from  all  such  visit- 
ors past  or  to  come.  She  was  a  true  Southern  beauty, 
with  the  largest  dark  eyes,  the  prettiest  yielding  manner, 
and  the  very  smallest  foot  Delisleville  had  ever  fallen  pros- 
trate before,  it  being  well  known  among  her  admirers  that 
one  of  her  numerous  male  cousins  had  once  measured  her 
little  slipper  with  a  cigar — a  story  in  which  Delisleville 
delighted.  And  she  was  not  only  a  pretty,  but  also  a  lova- 
ble and  tender-hearted  young  creature.  Her  soft  eyes 
and  soft  voice  did  not  belie  her.  She  was  gentle  and 
kindly  to  all  around  her.  Mrs.  De  Willoughby  and  the  two 
older  girls  fell  in  love  with  her  at  once,  and  the  Judge 
himself  was  aroused  to  an  eloquence  of  compliment  and  a 
courtly  grandeur  of  demeanour  which  rose  even  beyond  his 
usual  efforts  in  a  line  in  which  he  had  always  shone.  The 
very  negroes  adored  her  and  vied  with  each  other  to  do  her 
service. 

It  was  quite  natural  that  a  nature  so  sweet  and  sympa- 
thetic should  be  awakened  to  pity  for  the  one  member  of 
the  gay  household  who  seemed  cut  off  from  the  rest,  and 
who  at  the  time  existed  under  a  darker  cloud  than  usual. 

From  the  first  she  was  more  considerate  of  poof  Tom 
than  anyone  had  ever  been  before,  and  more  than  once, 
as  he  sat  siletit  and  gloomy  at  the  table,  he  looked  up  to 

19 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

find  her  lovely  eyes  resting  upon  his  big  frame  with  a  ques- 
tioning, pitying  glance. 

"  He  is  so  much  too  big,  Aunt  Jule,"  she  wrote  home  once. 
"  And  he  seems  somehow  to  feel  as  if  he  was  always  in  the 
way,  and,  indeed,  he  is  a  little  sometimes,-  poor  fellow!  and 
everyone  appears  to  think  he  is  only  a  joke  or  a  mistake; 
but  I  have  made  up  my  mind  never  to  laugh  at  him  at  all 
as  the  other  girls  do.  It  seems  so  unkind,  and  surely  he 
must  feel  it." 

She  never  did  laugh  at  him,  and  sometimes  even  tried  to 
talk  to  him,  and  once  drew  him  out  so  far  in  an  artful,  in- 
nocent way,  that  he  told  her  something  of  his  medical  failure 
and  the  reasons  for  it,  manifestly  ashamed  of  the  story  as 
he  related  it,  and  yet  telling  it  so  well  in  a  few  clumsy,  rather 
disconnected  sentences,  that  when  he  had  finished  her  eye- 
lashes were  wet  and  she  broke  into  a  little  shuddering  sigh. 

"  Oh!  "  she  said,  "  I  don't  think  you  are  to  blame,  really. 
I  have  often  thought  that  I  could  never,  never  bear  to  do 
such  things,  though,  of  course,  if  there  was  no  one  to  do 
them  it  would  be  dreadful;  but " 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  "  there  it  is.  Someone  must  do  it,  and 
I  know  I'm  a  confounded  coward  and  ninny,  but — but  I 
couldn't."  And  he  looked  overwhelmed  with  humiliation. 

"But  after  all,"  she  said,  in  the  soft  voice  which  had 
always  the  sound  of  appeal  in  it,  "  after  all,  I'm  sure  it  was 
because  you  have  a  kind  heart,  and  a  kind  heart  is  worth 
a  great  deal.  You  will  do  something  else." 

"  There  is  nothing  else  for  me  to  do,"  he  said,  mournfully; 
"  nothing  that  won't  disgrace  the  rest,  they  tell  me." 

It  was  small  wonder  that  this  was  his  final  undoing, 
though  neither  was  to  blame.  Certainly  no  fault  could  be 
attached  to  the  young  creature  who  meant  to  be  kind  to  him, 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

as  it  was  her  nature  to  be  to  all  surrounding  her;  and  surely 
Tom's  great  and  final  blunder  arose  from  no  presumption 
on  his  part.  He  had  never  thought  of  aspiring  to  the  proud 
position  with  regard  to  her  which  Romaine  and  De  Courcy 
seemed  to  occupy  by  natural  right.  It  was  only  now  and 
then,  when  they  were  unavoidably  engaged,  that  he  had  the 
courage  to  offer  his  services  as  messenger  or  escort,  but 
even  those  rare  pleasures  were  a  little  too  much  for  him. 
He  was  so  unused  to  such  privileges  that  they  intoxicated 
him  and  set  his  mind  in  a  whirl  which  prevented  his  think- 
ing clearly,  or,  indeed,  ever  thinking  at  all  sometimes. 

Even  when  it  was  all  over,  he  scarcely  knew  how  he  had 
been  betrayed  into  the  weakness  he  was  guilty  of.  It  was 
not  like  him  to  lose  sight  of  his  manifold  imperfections; 
but  for  once  they  were  swept  out  of  his  mind  by  a  momen- 
tary madness. 

It  was  on  the  occasion  of  a  ball  at  the  Delisle  House.  The 
Delisle  House  was  the  principal  hotel,  and  all  important  fes- 
tivities were  held  in  its  long  dining-hall  disguised  as  a  ball- 
room. The  ball  was  given  by  a  gallant  Delisleville  Club  in 
honour  of  Miss  Delia  Vanuxem,  and  it  was  a  very  mag- 
nificent affair  indeed.  The  disguise  of  the  dining-room  was 
complete.  It  was  draped  with  flags  and  decorated  with 
wreaths  of  cedar  and  paper  roses.  A  band  of  coloured  gen- 
tlemen, whose  ardour  concealed  any  slight  musical  discrepan- 
cies, assisted  the  festivities,  which — to  quote  the  Oriflamme 
of  the  next  morning — "  the  wealth,  beauty,  and  chivalry  of 
Delisleville  combined  to  render  unequalled  in  their  gaiety 
and  elegance,  making  the  evening  one  of  the  most  successful 
of  the  piquant  occasions 

When  youth  and  pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet, 
21 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Usually  Tom's  part  in  such  festivities  was  to  sit  uncom- 
fortably in  dull  corners,  taking  up  as  little  room  as  possible, 
or  piloting  his  way  carefully  through  the  crowd  to  the  sup- 
per-table with  an  elderly  lady  or  a  wall-flower  clinging  tim- 
idly to  his  huge  arm.  But  during  this  one  evening  he  lost 
his  equilibrium.  Delia  had  been  more  than  usually  kind 
to  him,  perhaps  because  she  saw  his  unhappy  awkwardness 
as  he  towered  above  everyone  else  and  tried  to  avoid  tread- 
ing upon  his  neighbors.  She  gave  him  such  a  pretty  smile 
that  he  obeyed  the  impulse  to  go  to  her  and  stand  at  her 
side;  then,  when  she  left  him  to  dance  with  De  Courcy,  she 
gave  him  her  fan  and  bouquet  and  fleecy  white  wrap  to 
hold,  and  somehow  it  seemed  not  unnatural  that  De 
Courcy  should  bring  her  back  to  him  as  to  a  sentinel  when 
the  dance  was  over.  Thus  it  was  as  she  sat,  flushed  a 
little  and  smiling,  her  face  uplifted  to  his  while  she 
thanked  him  for  taking  care  of  her  possessions,  that  the 
wild  thought  which  so  betrayed  him  rushed  into  his  brain. 

"Delia,"  he  faltered,  "will  you  dance  once  with  me  ?" 

It  was  so  startling  a  request,  that,  though  she  was  quick 
enough  to  conceal  her  surprise,  she  hesitated  a  second  be- 
fore recovering  her  breath  to  give  him  her  answer. 

"Yes,  Tom,  if  you  like,"  she  said,  and  glanced  down  Lt 
her  programme.  "The  next  is  a  waltz,  and  I  can  let  you 
have  it  because  Dr.  Ballentine  has  been  called  away.  Do 
you  waltz  ?" 

"I  have  learned,"  he  answered,  rather  huskily  and  trem- 
uloubly.  "I  do  it  badly,  of  course,  but  I  know  the  steps 
well  enough." 

He  was  so  helpless  with  nervousness  that  he  could 
scarcely  speak,  and  his  hands  trembled  when  they  stood  up 
together  and  he  laid  his  arm  reverently  about  her  waist. 

22 


In  Connection  with 

The    De    Willoughby  Claim 

She  saw  his  timidity  and  looked  up  at  him  with  a  kind 
smile. 

"I  must  be  very  little,"  she  said,  "I  never  knew  before 
that  I  was  so  little." 

He  had  thought  he  should  recover  himself  when  the 
music  and  motion  began,  but  he  did  not.  He  looked  down 
at  the  delicate  head  which  reached  barely  to  his  beating 
heart,  and  a  blur  came  before  his  sight;  the  light  and  the 
crowd  of  dancers  dazzled  and  confused  him.  The  whirl- 
ing movement  made  him  dizzy,  and  he  had  not  expected 
to  be  dizzy.  He  began  suddenly  to  be  conscious  of  his  own 
immensity,  the  unusualness  of  his  position,  and  of  the  fact 
that  here  and  there  he  saw  a  meaning  smile;  his  heart  beat 
faster  still,  and  he  knew  he  had  been  led  into  a  mistake. 
He  swung  round  and  round  too  quickly  for  the  music, 
missed  a  step,  tried  to  recover  himself,  became  entangled 
in  his  partner's  dress,  trod  on  her  poor  little  feet,  and  fell 
headlong  on  the  floor,  dragging  her  with  him  and  striking 
against  a  passing  couple. 

It  was  his  brother  De  Courcy  with  whom  he  had  come  in 
such  violent  contact,  and  it  was  De  Courcy  who  sprang  to 
Delia's  rescue,  assisting  her  to  her  feet  with  all  possible 
grace,  and  covering  her  innocent  confusion  with  a  brilliant 
speech,  but  not,  however,  before  he  had  directed  a  terrible 
scowl  at  the  prostrate  culprit  and  sworn  furiously  at  him 
under  his  breath.  But  Delia  was  very  good  to  him  and 
did  not  desert  him  in  the  hour  of  his  need,  giving  him  only 
kind  looks  and  managing  to  arrange  that  he  should  lead 
her  to  her  seat  as  if  he  had  not  been  in  disgrace  at  all. 

But  the  shame  and  pain  of  his  downfall  were  sharper 
pangs  than  he  had  ever  borne,  and  before  the  night  was 
half  over  he  slipped  away  from  the  dancers  and  rushed 

23 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

home  to  his  own  room,  where  he  lay  awake  through  the 
long  hours,  cursing  himself  for  his  folly,  and  tossing  in 
a  fever  of  humiliation  and  grief. 

In  the  morning  when  he  came  down  to  the  breakfast 
table,  the  family  were  already  assembled,  and  the  Judge 
had  heard  the  story  from  De  Courcy,  who  told  it  all  the 
more  forcibly  in  the  absence  of  Miss  Vanuxem,  who  had 
spent  the  night  at  the  house  of  another  relative. 

When  Tom  entered,  his  paternal  parent  was  ready  to 
receive  him. 

"  Trod  on  Miss  Vanuxem's  dress  and  tore  it  off  her  back 
in  the  ball-room,  did  you?  "  he  burst  forth.  "  Made  a  fool 
of  yourself  and  a  bear-garden  of  the  Delisle  House  ball- 
room! What  were  you  trying  to  dance  for?  Leave  that 
to  men  who  can  manage  their  limbs,  and  don't  inflict  your- 
self on  women  who  are  too  high-bred  to  refuse  to  dance 
with  a  man  who  ought  to  be  a  gentleman.  Stay  at  home, 
sir!  Stay  at  home,  and  don't  make  a  disgraceful  spectacle 
of  yourself  in  public,  particularly  when  there  are  lovely 
women  present  to  witness  your  humiliation." 

It  was  the  figurative  last  straw.  Tom's  mind  had  been 
dark  and  gloomy  enough  to  begin  with,  but  when  during 
his  father's  harangue  he  glanced  up  and  saw  De  Courcy 
bending  his  aquiline  face  over  his  paper  with  a  slightly 
sardonic  smile,  he  could  stand  no  more. 

To  the  utter  dumfounding  of  his  mother  and  sisters, 
and  even  the  irate  Judge  himself,  he  pushed  his  chair  back 
and  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  actual  roar  of  rage  and 
pain.  His  great  body  seemed  to  swell  until  its  size  over- 
whelmed them;  his  eyes  blazed,  he  shook  his  tremendous 
fist. 

"  Leave  me  alone!  "  he  shouted,  "  leave  me  alone!  Yes, 

24 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

I  did  make  a  fool  of  myself!  Yes,  I  did  knock  a  woman 
down  and  tear  her  dress  and  look  like  an  ass  and  set  the 
whole  room  laughing  at  me,  women  and  all — the  best-bred 
and  sweetest  of  them!  It's  all  true,  every  word  of  it,  and 
more  too — more  too !  And  that's  not  enough,  but  my  own 
father  serves  it  up  again,  and  you  fellows  sit  there  and  grin 
over  it  to  make  it  worse.  That's  right,  pitch  in,  all  of  you, 
and  drive  me  mad  and  put  an  end  to  it." 

He  upset  his  chair  and  a  small  negro  boy  with  a  plate  of 
waffles,  and,  striding  over  the  scattered  ruins,  dashed  out 
of  the  room  with  tears  of  fury  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  the  turning-point  of  his  existence.  He  made  his 
bitter  resolve  as  he  walked  out  of  the  house  down  the 
street.  Early  as  it  was,  he  went  straight  to  Delia,  and  when 
he  found  himself  alone  with  her,  poured  forth  all  the 
misery  of  his  sore  heart. 

"  If  I  had  been  born  a  clod-hopper  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  no  place  here  among  men 
with  decently  shaped  bodies  and  clear  heads.  I'm  a  great 
clumsy  fool,  and  there's  no  help  for  it.  If  I'd  had  more 
brain,  I  might  have  manned  the  rest;  but  I'm  a  dullard 
too.  They  may  well  sneer  at  me.  I  think  I  will  go  away 
and  bury  myself  somewhere  among  the  people  I  ought  to 
have  lived  among  by  rights.  In  some  simple  country  place 
I  might  find  those  who  know  less  than  I  do,  and  forget  the 
rest;  and  perhaps  be  content  enough  in  time.  I  shall 
never  marry.  I — I  suppose  you  know  that,  Delia."  And 
he  took  her  little  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  own  open  palm 
and  sat  silent  a  moment  looking  at  it,  and  at  last  suddenly 
a  great  drop  fell  upon  it  which  made  them  both  start.  He 
did  not  look  up  at  her,  but  took  out  his  big  white  hand- 
kerchief and  wiped  the  drop  gently  away  and  then  stooped 

25 


In  Connection  with 

The   De   Willoughby  Claim 

and  kissed  the  spot  where  it  had  fallen.  Her  own  lashes 
were  wet  when  their  eyes  met  afterwards,  and  she  spoke 
in  a  subdued  voice. 

"I  have  always  liked  you  very  much,  Cousin  Tom,"  she 
said;  "you  mustn't  talk  of  going  away.  We  should  miss 
you  much  more  than  you  think.  I  know  I  should  be  very 
sorry/* 

"You  won't  be  here  to  miss  me,  Delia,"  he  answered, 
sadly. 

The  hand  on  his  palm  trembled  slightly  and  her  eyes 
faltered  under  his  gaze. 

"I — think  it — is  possible  I  shall  live  in  Delisleville," 
she  whispered. 

His  heart  bounded  as  if  it  would  burst  his  side.  He 
knew  what  she  meant  in  an  instant,  though  he  had  never 
suspected  it  before. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  he  groaned.  "Oh,  Delia!  which— which 
of  them  is  it?  It's  De  Courcy,  I  could  swear.  It's  De 
Courcy!" 

"Yes,"  she  faltered,  "it  is  De  Courcy." 

He  drew  his  hand  away  and  covered  his  face  with  it. 

"I  knew  it  was  De  Courcy,"  he  cried.  "He  was  always 
the  kind  of  fellow  to  win.  I  suppose  he  deserves  it.  The 
Lord  knows  I  hope  he  does,  for  your  sake.  Of  course  it's 
De  Courcy.  Who  else?" 

He  did  not  stay  long  after  this,  and  when  he  went  away 
he  wrung  her  hand  in  his  in  a  desperate  farewell. 

"This  is  another  reason  for  my  going  now,"  he  said; 
"I  couldn't  stay.  This — is — good-bye,  Delia." 

He  went  home  and  had  a  prolonged  interview  with  his 
father.  It  was  not  an  agreeable  interview  to  recur  to 
mentally  in  after  time,  but  in  the  end  Tom  gained  his 

26 


In  Connection  with  , 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

point,  and  a  portion,  of  his  future  patrimony  was  handed 
over  to  him. 

"  I  shall  be  no  further  trouble  to  you/'  he  said.  "  You 
mayn't  ever  hear  of  me  again.  This  is  the  end  of  me  as  far 
as  you  are  concerned." 

That  night,  with  a  valise  in  his  hand,  he  took  his  place 
in  the  stage  running  towards  the  mountain  regions  of 
North  Carolina,  and  from  that  day  forward  the  place  knew 
him  no  more.  It  was  as  he  had  known  it  would  be:  no  one 
was  very  sorry  to  be  rid  of  him,  and  even  Delia's  sadness 
was  at  length  toned  down  by  the  excitement  of  prepara- 
tion for  and  the  festivities  attendant  upon  her  triumphant 
union  with  the  most  dashing  De  Willoughby  of  the  flock. 

When  this  event  occurred,  Tom's  wanderings  had  ended 
temporarily  in  the  farm-house  referred  to  in  the  first  chap- 
ter, and  his  appearance  in  this  remote  and  usually  undis 
turbed  portion  of  his  country  had  created  some  sensation. 
The  news  of  the  arrival  of  a  stranger  had  spread  itself 
abroad  and  aroused  a  slow-growing  excitement. 

They  were  a  kindly,  simple  people  who  surrounded  him 
— hospitable,  ignorant,  and  curious  beyond  measure  con- 
cerning the  ways  of  the  outside  world  of  which  they  knew 
so  little. 

In  the  course  of  time,  as  the  first  keenness  of  his  misery 
wore  away,  Tom  began  to  discover  the  advantages  of  the 
change  he  had  made.  He  no  longer  need  contrast  himself 
unfavourably  with  his  neighbours.  He  knew  more  than 
they,  and  they  found  nothing  in  him  to  condemn  or  jeer  at. 
To  them  he  was  a  mine  of  worldly  knowledge.  He  amused 
them  and  won  their  hearts.  His  natural  indolence  and 
lack  of  active  ambition  helped  the  healing  of  his  wounds, 
perhaps;  and  then  he  began  to  appreciate  the  humourous 

jtf 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

side  of  his  position  and  his  old  tendency  to  ponderous  jok- 
ing came  back,  and  assisted  him  to  win  a  greater  popularity 
than  any  mere  practical  quality  could  have  done. 

The  novelty  of  his  role  was  its  chief  attraction.  He  be- 
gan to  enjoy  and  give  himself  up  to  it,  and  make  the  most 
of  his  few  gifts.  Life  was  no  longer  without  zest.  His 
natural  indolence  increased  with  the  size  of  his  great  body 
as  the  years  passed,  and  his  slow  whimsical  humour  became 
his  strongest  characteristic.  He  felt  it  a  fine  point  in  the 
sarcasm  of  his  destiny  that  he  should  at  last  have  become 
a  hero  and  be  regarded  with  admiration  for  his  conver- 
sational abilities,  but  he  bore  his  honours  discreetly,  and 
found  both  moral  and  physical  comfort  in  them. 

He  insensibly  adopted  the  habits  of  his  neighbours;  he 
dressed  with  their  primitive  regard  for  ease;  he  dropped 
now  and  then  into  their  slurring  speech,  and  adopted  one 
by  one  their  arcadian  customs. 

Whether  the  change  was  the  better  or  the  worse  for  him 
might  easily  be  a  matter  of  opinion,  and  depend  entirely  on 
the  standpoint  from  which  it  was  viewed.  At  least  he 
lived  harmlessly  and  had  no  enemy. 

And  so  existence  stood  with  him  when  the  second  great 
change  in  his  life  took  place. 


CHAPTER  III 

SCARCELY  a  month  before  the  events  described  in  the 
opening  chapter  took  place,  the  stranger  and  a  young 
woman,  who  was  his  companion,  had  appeared  in  the  com- 
munity. There  was  little  that  seemed  mysterious  about 
them  at  the  outset.  A  long,  uninhabited  cabin,  a  score  or 
so  of  yards  from  the  mountain  road,  had  been  roughly 
patched  up  and  taken  possession  of  by  them.  There  was 
nothing  unusual  in  the  circumstance  except  that  they  had 
appeared  suddenly  and  entirely  unheralded;  but  this  in 
itself  would  have  awakened  no  special  comment.  The 
mystery  developed  itself  from  their  after  reserve  and  se- 
clusion. They  guarded  themselves  from  all  advances  by 
keeping  out  of  sight  when  anyone  approached  their  cabin. 
The  young  woman  was  rarely,  if  ever,  seen.  The  man 
never  called  at  the  post-office  for  mail,  and  upon  the  few 
occasions  on  which  a  stray  human  being  crossed  his  path, 
his  manner  was  such  as  by  no  means  encouraged  the  curi- 
ous. Mr.  Stamps  was  the  only  individual  who  had  seen 
the  woman  face  to  face.  There  was  an  unmoved  pertinacity 
in  the  character  of  Mr.  Stamps  which  stood  him  in  good 
stead  upon  all  occasions.  He  was  not  easily  abashed  or 
rebuffed,  the  more  especially  when  he  held  in  view  some 
practical  object.  Possibly  he  held  some  such  object  in 
view  when  he  rode  up  to  the  tumbled  down  gateway  and 
asked  for  the  draught  of  water  no  woman  of  the  region 
could  refuse  without  some  reasonable  excuse. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  'Tain't  airs  they're  puttin'  on,  Cindy,"  he  said  to  the 
partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows  the  evening  after  his  ride 
over  the  mountain.  "  Oh,  no,  Hain't  airs,  it's  somethin' 
more  curi's  than  that! "  And  he  bent  over  the  fire  in  a 
comfortable  lounging  way,  rubbing  his  hands  a  little,  and 
blinked  at  the  back  log  thoughtfully. 

They  were  a  friendly  and  sociable  people,  these  moun- 
taineers, all  the  more  so  because  the  opportunities  for  meet- 
ing sociably  were  limited.  The  men  had  their  work  and 
the  women  their  always  large  families  to  attend  to,  and 
with  a  mile  or  so  of  rough  road  between  themselves  and 
their  neighbours,  there  was  not  much  chance  for  enjoy- 
able gossip.  When  good  fortune  threw  them  together 
they  usually  made  the  best  of  their  time.  Consequently, 
the  mystery  of  two  human  beings,  who  had  shut  themselves 
off  with  apparent  intent  from  all  intercourse  with  their 
kind,  was  a  difficulty  not  readily  disposed  of.  It  was,  per- 
haps, little  to  be  wondered  at  that  Mr.  Stamps  thought  it 
over  and  gathered  carefully  together  all  the  points  present- 
ing themselves  to  his  notice.  The  subject  had  been  fre- 
quently discussed  at  the  Cross-roads  post-office.  The  dis- 
position to  seclusion  was  generally  spoken  of  as  "  curi's- 
ness,"  and  various  theories  had  been  advanced  with  a  view 
to  explaining  the  "  curi'sness  "  in  question.  "  Airs  "  had 
been  suggested  as  a  solution  of  the  difficulty,  but  as  time 
progressed,  the  theory  of  "  airs  "  had  been  abandoned. 

"  Fur,"  said  Uncle  Jake  Wooten,  who  was  a  patriarch 
and  an  authority,  "  when  a  man's  a-gwine  to  put  on  airs,  he 
kinder  slicks  up  more.  A  man  that's  airy,  he  ain't  a-gwine 
to  shut  hisself  up  and  not  show  out  more.  Like  as  not 
he'd  wear  store-clothes  an'  hang  round  '11'  kinder  blow; 
'n'  this  feller  don't  do  nary  one.  'N'  as  to  the  woman,  Lord! 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

I  should  think  all  you'unses  knows  how  womenfolks  does 
that's  airy.  Ef  this  yere  one  wus  that  way,  she'd  be  a- 
dressin'  in  starched  calikers  Jn'  sunbonnets  'n'  bress-pins, 
'n'  mebbe  rings  'n'  congrist-gaiters.  She'd  be  to  the  meet- 
in'  every  time  there  was  meetin'  a-showin'  out  'n'  lettin' 
on  like  she  didn't  know  the  rest  on  'em  wus  seem'.  It 
don't  sound  to  reason  that  either  on  'em  is  airy." 

It  had  been  suggested  by  a  bold  spirit  capable  of  more 
extended  flights  of  the  imagination  than  the  rest,  that  they 
were  "  Northerners  "  who  for  some  unworthy  object  had 
taken  up  their  abode  within  the  bound  of  civilisation;  but 
this  idea  was  frowned  down  as  being  of  a  wild  nature  and 
not  to  be  encouraged. 

Finally  the  general  interest  in  the  subject  had  subsided 
somewhat,  though  it  was  ready  to  revive  at  any  new  com- 
ment or  incident,  which  will  explain  the  bodily  awakening 
of  the  sleepers  on  the  post-office  porch  when  Mr.  Stamps 
made  his  announcement  of  the  approach  of  "  thet  thar 
feller." 

Up  to  the  moment  when  the  impulse  seized  him  which 
led  him  to  take  his  place  behind  the  counter  as  the  stranger 
entered  the  store,  Tom  De  Willoughby  had  taken  little  or 
no  part  in  numerous  discussions  held  around  him.  He  had 
listened  with  impartiality  to  all  sides  of  the  question,  his 
portion  of  the  entertainment  being  to  make  comments  of 
an  inspiriting  nature  which  should  express  in  a  marked 
manner  his  sarcastic  approval  of  any  special  weakness  ir 
a  line  of  argument. 

Among  the  many  agreeable  things  said  of  him  in  his 
past,  it  had  never  been  said  that  he  was  curious;  he  was 
too  indolent  to  be  curious,  and  it  may  be  simply  asserted 
that  he  had  felt  little  curiosity  concerning  the  popular 

31 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

mystery.  But  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  his 
customer,  a  new  feeling  suddenly  took  possession  of  him. 
The  change  came  when,  for  one  instant,  the  man,  as  if  in 
momentary  forgetfulness,  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes  in 
speaking.  Each  moved  involuntarily,  and  Tom  turned 
aside,  ostensibly,  to  pick  up  a  sheet  of  wrapping  paper. 
The  only  words  exchanged  were  those  relating  to  the  cour- 
tesies and  the  brief  remarks  heard  by  the  loungers  outside. 
After  this  the  stranger  rode  away  and  Tom  lounged  back 
to  his  chair.  He  made  no  reply  to  Stamps's  explanatory 
aside,  and  no  comment  upon  the  remarks  of  the  company 
whose  curiosity  had  naturally  received  a  new  impetus  which 
spurred  them  on  to  gossip  a  little  in  the  usual  vague  man- 
ner. He  gave  himself  up  to  speculation.  The  mere  tone  of 
a  man's  voice  had  set  his  mind  to  work.  His  past  life  had 
given  him  experience  in  which  those  about  him  were  lack- 
ing, and  at  the  instant  he  heard  the  stranger  speak  this 
experience  revealed  to  him  as  by  a  flash  of  light,  a  thing 
which  had  never  yet  been  even  remotely  guessed  at. 

"  A  gentleman,  by  thunder! "  he  said  to  himself. 
"  That's  it!  A  gentleman!  " 

He  knew  he  could  not  be  mistaken.  Low  and  purposely 
muffled  as  the  voice  had  been,  he  recognised  in  it  that 
which  marked  it  as  the  voice  of  a  man  trained  to  modulated 
speech.  And  even  this  was  not  all,  though  it  had  led  him 
to  look  again,  and  more  closely,  at  the  face  shadowed  by 
the  broad  hat.  It  was  not  a  handsome  face,  but  it  was  one 
not  likely  to  be  readily  forgotten.  It  was  worn  and  hag- 
gard, the  features  strongly  aquiline,  the  eyes  somewhat 
sunken;  it  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  lived  the  life  of 
an  ascetic  and  who,  with  a  capacity  for  sharp  suffering, 
had  suffered  and  was  suffering  still. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  But  a  gentleman  and  not  a  Southerner,"  Tom  persisted 
to  himself.  "  A  Yankee,  as  I'm  a  sinner;  and  what  is  a 
Yankee  doing  hiding  himself  here  for?" 

It  was  such  a  startling  thing  under  the  circumstances, 
that  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  thought  of  it.  It 
haunted  him  through  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  when  night 
came  and  the  store  being  closed,  he  retired  as  usual  to  the 
back  part  of  the  house,  he  was  brooding  over  it  still. 

He  lived  in  a  simple  and  primitive  style.  Three  rooms 
built  on  to  the  store  were  quite  enough  for  him.  One  was 
his  sitting-  and  bed-room,  another  his  dining-room  and 
kitchen,  the  third  the  private  apartment  of  his  household 
goddess,  a  stout  old  mulatto  woman  who  kept  his  house  in 
order  and  prepared  his  meals. 

When  he  opened  the  door  to-night  the  little  boarded 
rooms  were  illuminated  with  two  tallow  candles  and  made 
fragrant  with  the  odour  of  fried  chicken  and  hoe-cakes, 
to  which  Aunt  Mornin  was  devoting  all  her  energies,  and 
for  the  first  time  perhaps  in  his  life,  he  failed  to  greet 
these  attractions  with  his  usual  air  of  good  cheer. 

He  threw  his  hat  into  a  chair,  and,  stretching  himself  out 
upon  the  bedstead,  lay  there,  his  hands  clasped  above  his 
head  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  glow  of  the  fire  in  the  ad- 
joining room,  where  Aunt  Mornin  was  at  work. 

"A  gentleman!"  he  said,  half  aloud.  "That's  it,  by 
Jupiter,  a  gentleman! " 

He  remembered  it  afterwards  as  a  curious  coincidence 
that  he  should  have  busied  his  mind  so  actively  with  his 
subject  in  a  manner  so  unusual  with  him. 

His  imagination  not  being  sufficiently  vivid  to  help  him 
out  of  his  difficulty  to  his  own  satisfaction,  he  laboured 
with  it  patiently,  recurring  to  it  again  and  again,  and  turn- 

33 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

ing  it  over  until  it  assumed  a  greater  interest  than  at  first. 
He  only  relinquished  it  with  an  effort  when,  going  to  bed 
later  than  usual,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  compose  himself 
to  sleep. 

"  Good  Lord!  "  he  said,  turning  on  his  side  and  address- 
ing some  unseen  presence  representing  the  vexed  question. 
"  Don't  keep  a  man  awake :  settle  it  yourself."  And  finally 
sank  into  unconsciousness  in  the  midst  of  his  mental  strug- 
gle. 

About  the  middle  of  the  night  he  awakened.  He  felt 
that  something  had  startled  him  from  his  sleep,  but  could 
not  tell  what  it  was.  A  few  seconds  he  lay  without  moving, 
listening,  and  as  he  listened  there  came  to  his  ear  the 
sound  of  a  horse's  feet,  treading  the  earth  restlessly  out- 
side the  door,  the  animal  itself  breathing  heavily  as  if  it  had 
been  ridden  hard;  and  almost  as  soon  as  he  aroused  to 
recognition  of  this  fact,  there  came  a  sharp  tap  on  the  door 
and  a  man's  voice  crying  "  Hallo!  " 

He  knew  the  voice  at  once,  and  unexpected  as  the  sum- 
mons was,  felt  he  was  not  altogether  unprepared  for  it, 
though  he  could  not  have  offered  even  the  weakest  explana- 
tion for  the  feeling. 

"  He's  in  trouble,"  he  said,  as  he  sat  up  quickly  in  bed. 
"  Something's  gone  wrong."  He  rose  and  in  a  few  seconds 
opened  the  door. 

He  had  guessed  rightly;  it  was  the  stranger.  The  moon- 
light fell  full  upon  the  side  of  the  house  and  the  road,  and 
the  panting  horse  stood  revealed  in  a  bright  light  which 
gave  the  man's  face  a  ghostly  look  added  to  his  natural 
pallor.  As  he  leaned  forward,  Tom  saw  that  he  was  as 
much  exhausted  as  was  the  animal  he  had  ridden. 

34 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  want  to  find  a  doctor,  or  a  woman  who  can  give  help 
to  another,"  he  said. 

"  There  ain't  a  doctor  within  fifteen  miles  from  here/' 
began  Tom.  He  stopped  short.  What  he  saw  in  the  man's 
face  checked  him. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  is  it  your  wife?  " 

The  man  made  a  sharp  gesture  of  despair. 

"  She's  dying,  I  think,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "  and  there's 
not  a  human  being  near  her." 

"  Good  Lord!  "  cried  Tom,  "  Good  Lord!  "  The  sweat 
started  out  on  his  forehead.  He  remembered  what  Stamps 
had  said  of  her  youth  and  her  pale  face,  and  he  thought 
of  Delia  Vanuxem,  and  from  this  thought  sprang  a  sudden 
recollection  of  the  deserted  medical  career  in  which  he  had 
been  regarded  as  so  ignominious  a  failure.  He  had  never 
mentioned  it  since  he  had  cut  himself  off  from  the  old  life, 
and  the  women  for  whose  children  he  had  prescribed  with 
some  success  now  and  then  had  considered  the  ends 
achieved  only  the  natural  results  of  his  multitudinous  gifts. 
But  the  thought  of  the  desolate  young  creature  lying  there 
alone  struck  deep.  He  listened  one  moment,  then  made  his 
resolve. 

"  Go  to  the  stable,"  he  said,  "  and  throw  a  saddle  over 
the  horse  you  will  find  there.  I  know  something  of  such 
matters  myself,  and  I  shall  be  better  than  nothing,  with 
a  woman's  help.  I  have  a  woman  here  who  will  follow 
us." 

He  went  into  the  back  room  and  awakened  Aunt  Mornin. 

"  Get  up,"  he  said,  "  and  saddle  the  mule  and  follow  me 
as  soon  as  you  can  to  the  cabin  in  Blair's  Hollow.  The 
wife  of  a  man  who  lives  there  needs  a  woman  with  her. 
Come  quickly." 

35 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

When  he  returned  to  the  door  his  horse  stood  there  sad- 
dled, the  stranger  sitting  on  his  own  and  holding  the 
bridle. 

Tom  mounted  in  silence,  but  once  finally  seated,  he 
turned  to  his  companion. 

"  Now  strike  out,"  he  said. 

There  were  four  miles  of  road  before  them,  but  they 
scarcely  slackened  rein  until  they  were  within  sight  of  the 
Hollow,  and  the  few  words  they  exchanged  were  the  barest 
questions  and  answers. 

The  cabin  was  built  away  from  the  road  on  the  side  of 
the  hill,  and  leaving  their  horses  tethered  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope,  they  climbed  it  together. 

When  they  reached  the  door,  the  stranger  stopped  and 
turned  to  Tom. 

"  There  is  no  sound  inside,"  he  faltered;  "  I  dare  not 
go  in." 

Tom  strode  by  him  and  pushed  the  door  open. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  a  roughly  made  bedstead, 
and  upon  it  lay  a  girl,  her  deathly  pale  face  turned  side- 
ways upon  the  pillow.  It  was  as  if  she  lay  prostrated  by 
some  wave  of  agony  which  had  just  passed  over  her;  her 
breath  was  faint  and  rapid,  and  great  drops  of  sweat  stood 
out  upon  her  young  drawn  face. 

Tom  drew  a  chair  forward  and  sat  down  beside  her.  He 
lifted  one  of  her  hands,  touching  it  gently,  but  save  for  a 
slight  quiver  of  the  eyelids  she  did  not  stir.  A  sense  of  awe 
fell  upon  him. 

"It's  Death,"  he  said  to  himself.  He  had  experience 
enough  to  teach  him  that.  He  turned  to  the  man. 

"  You  had  better  go  out  of  the  room;  I  will  do  my  best." 


36 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

In  a  little  over  an  hour  Aunt  Mornin  dismounted  from 
her  mule  and  tethered  it  to  a  sapling  at  the  side  of  the 
road  below.  She  looked  up  at  the  light  gleaming  faintly 
through  the  pines  on  the  hillside. 

"  I  cum  's  fas'  's  I  could,"  she  said,  "  but  I  reckon  I'd 
orter  been  here  afore.  De  Lord  knows  dis  is  a  curi's  'ca- 
sion." 

When  she  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  cabin,  her  master 
pointed  to  a  small  faintly  moving  bundle  lying  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  over  which  he  was  bending. 

"  Take  it  into  the  other  room  and  tell  the  man  to  come 
here,"  he  said.  "  There's  no  time  to  lose." 

He  still  held  the  weak  hand;  but  the  girl's  eyes  were  no 
longer  closed;  they  were  open  and  fixed  on  his  face.  The 
great  fellow  was  trembling  like  a  leaf.  The  past  hour  had 
been  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  was  entirely 
unstrung. 

"  I  wasn't  cut  out  for  this  kind  of  thing,"  he  had  groaned 
more  than  once,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  thanked 
Fate  for  making  him  a  failure. 

As  he  looked  down  at  his  patient,  a  mist  rose  before  his 
eyes,  blurring  his  sight,  and  he  hurriedly  brushed  it 
away. 

She  was  perhaps  nineteen  years  old,  and  had  the  very 
young  look  a  simple  trusting  nature  and  innocent  untried 
life  bring.  She  was  small,  fragile,  and  fair,  with  the  pure 
fairness  born  of  a  cold  climate.  Her  large  blue-gray  eyes 
had  in  them  the  piteous  appeal  sometimes  to  be  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  a  timid  child. 

Tom  had  laid  his  big  hand  on  her  forehead  and  stroked 
it,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said,  with  a  tremor  in  his 

37 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

voice.     "  Close  your  eyes  and  try  to  be  quiet  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then — 

He  stooped  to  bend  his  ear  to  her  lips  which  were  moving 
faintly. 

"  He'll  come  directly/7  he  answered,  though  he  did  not 
hear  her;  "—directly.  It' s  all  right." 

And  then  he  stroked  her  hair  again  because  he  knew 
not  what  else  to  do,  seeing,  as  he  did,  that  the  end  was  so 
very  near,  and  that  no  earthly  power,  however  far  beyond 
his  own  poor  efforts,  could  ward  it  off. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  the  man  came 
in. 

That  he  too  read  the  awful  truth  at  his  first  glance,  Tom 
saw.  All  attempts  at  disguise  had  dropped  away.  His 
thin,  scholarly  face  was  as  colourless  as  the  fairer  one  on 
the  pillow,  his  brows  were  knit  into  rigid  lines  and  his  lips 
were  working.  He  approached  the  bed,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments stood  looking  down  as  if  trying  to  give  himself  time 
to  gain  self-control.  Tom  saw  the  girl's  soft  eyes  fixed  in 
anguished  entreaty;  there  was  a  struggle,  and  from  the 
slowly  moving  lips  came  a  few  faint  and  broken  words. 

"  Death!— They— never  know." 

The  man  flung  himself  upon  his  knees  and  burst  into  an 
agony  of  such  weeping  that,  seeing  it,  Tom  turned  away 
shuddering. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  they  will  never  know,  they  who  loved 
you — who  loved  you — will  never  know!  God  forgive  me  if 
I  have  done  wrong.  I  have  been  false  that  they  might  be 
spared.  God  forgive  me  for  the  sin!  " 

The  poor  child  shivered;  she  had  become  still  paler,  and 
the  breath  came  in  sharp  little  puffs  through  her  nostrils. 

"  God— God!— God!  "  she  panted.    But  the  man  did  not 

38 


In  Connection  with. 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

seem  to  hear  her.  He  was  praying  aloud,  a  struggling,  dis- 
jointed prayer. 

"  0  God  of  sinners/'  he  cried,  "  Thou  who  forgivest, 
Thou  who  hast  died,  forgive — forgive  in  this  hour  of 
death!  " 

Tom  heard  no  more.  He  could  only  listen  to  the  soft, 
panting  breath  sinking  lower  and  lower. 

Suddenly  the  piteous  eyes  turned  towards  him — the 
stranger — as  if  in  great  dread:  perhaps  they  saw  in  the 
mere  human  pity  of  his  face  what  met  some  sharp  last 
need. 

He  went  to  his  old  place  as  if  in  answer  to  the  look,  and 
took  the  poor  little  hand  once  more,  closing  the  warmth 
of  his  own  over  its  coldness.  He  was  weeping  like  a  child. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  he  said;  "—not  afraid.  It's— it's  all 
right." 

And  almost  as  he  said  it,  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
his  own,  and  with  her  hand  in  his,  she  gave  a  low  sob — and 
died. 

Tom  touched  the  kneeling  man  upon  the  shoulder. 

"  There's  no  need  of  that  now/'  he  said;  "  it's  over." 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  a  few  minutes  later  he  went  into  the  back  room, 
he  found  Aunt  Mornin  sitting  before  the  big  fireplace  in 
which  burned  a  few  logs  of  wood.  The  light  the  snapping 
sticks  gave  fell  full  upon  her  black  face,  and  upon  the  small 
bundle  upon  her  spacious  knee. 

As  he  entered  she  turned  sharply  towards  him. 

"  Don't  nobody  keer  nothin'  for  this  yere  ?  "  she  said, 
"  ain't  nobody  comin'  nigh?  Whar's  he?  Don't  he  take 
no  int'rus'  in  the  pore  little  lonesome  child?  I  'spect  yo'll 
haf  to  take  it  ye'self,  Mars'  De  Willerby,  while  I  goes  in 
dar." 

Tom  stopped  short,  stricken  with  a  pang  of  remorse.  He 
looked  down  at  the  small  face  helplessly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you'll  have  to  go  in  there;  you're 
needed." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  in  startled  questioning. 

"  Mars  De  Willerby,"  she  said,  "  does  dat  ar  mean  she's 
cFar  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Tom.    "  She's  gone,  Mornin." 

With  the  emotional  readiness  of  her  race,  the  comfort- 
able creature  burst  into  weeping,  clasping  the  child  to  her 
broad  bosom. 

"  Pore  chile!  "  she  said,  "  an'  poor  chile  lef  behin'!  De 
Lord  help  'em  bofe." 

With  manifest  fear  Tom  stooped  and  took  the  little  red 
flannel  bundle  from  her  arms. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Wilioughby  Claim 

"  Never  mind  crying,"  he  said.  "  Go  into  the  room  and 
do  what's  to  be  done." 

When  left  alone  with  his  charge,  he  sat  down  and  held 
it  balanced  carefully  in  his  hands,  his  elbows  resting  on 
his  knees.  He  was  used  to  carrying  his  customers'  children, 
a  great  part  of  his  popularity  being  based  upon  his  jovial 
fondness  for  them.  But  he  had  never  held  so  small  a 
creature  as  this  in  his  arms  before.  He  regarded  it  with 
a  respectful  timidity. 

"It  wasn't  thought  of,"  he  said,  reflectively.  "Even 
she — poor  thing,  poor  thing — "  he  ended,  hurriedly,  "  there 
was  no  time." 

He  was  still  holding  his  small  burden  with  awkward 
kindliness  when  the  door  opened  and  the  man  he  had  left 
in  the  room  beyond  came  in.  He  approached  the  hearth 
and  stood  for  a  few  seconds  staring  at  the  fire  in  a  stupefied, 
abstracted  way.  He  did  not  seem  to  see  the  child.  At  last 
he  spoke. 

"  Where  shall  I  lay  her?  "  he  asked.  "  Where  is  the 
nearest  churchyard  ?  " 

"Fifteen  miles  away,"  Tom  answered.  "Most  of  the 
people  like  to  have  their  dead  near  them  and  lay  them  on 
the  hillsides." 

The  man  turned  to  him  with  a  touch  of  horror  in  his  face. 

"  In  unconsecrated  ground?  "  he  said. 

"  It  doesn't  trouble  them,"  said  Tom.  "  They  sleep  well 
enough." 

The  man  turned  to  the  fire  again — he  had  not  looked  at 
the  child  yet — and  made  a  despairing  gesture  with  his 
hands. 

"  That  she—"  he  said,  "  that  she  should  lie  so  far  from 
them,  and  in  unconsecrated  ground!  " 

41 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  There  is  the  place  I  told  you  of/'  said  Tom. 

"  I  cannot  go  there/'  with  the  gesture  again.  "  There 
is  no  time.  I  must  go  away." 

He  made  no  pretence  at  concealing  that  he  had  a  secret 
to  hide.  He  seemed  to  have  given  up  the  effort. 

Tom  looked  up  at  him. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  this?  "  he  asked. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  become  conscious  of 
the  child's  presence.  He  turned  and  gave  it  a  startled  side- 
long glance,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  struck  with  a  new 
fear. 

"I — do  not  know/'  he  stammered.  "I — no!  I  do  not 
know.  What  have  I  been  doing?  " 

He  sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  trem- 
bling hands. 

"  God's  curse  is  upon  it,"  he  cried.  "  There  is  no  place 
for  it  on  earth." 

Tom  rose  with  a  sudden  movement  and  began  to  pace  the 
floor  with  his  charge  in  his  arms. 

"  It's  a  little  chap  to  lay  a  curse  on,"  he  said.  "  And 
helpless  enough,  by  Gad!  " 

He  looked  down  at  the  diminutive  face,  and  as  he  did 
so,  a  wild  thought  flashed  through  his  mind.  It  had  the 
suddenness  and  force  of  a  revelation.  His  big  body 
trembled  with  some  feeling  it  would  have  gone  hard  with 
him  to  express,  and  his  heart  warmed  within  him  as  he  felt 
the  light  weight  lying  against  it. 

"No  place  for  it!"  he  cried.  "  By  God,  there  is!  There 
is  a  place  here — and  a  man  to  stand  by  and  see  fair- 
play!  " 

"  Give  her  to  me,"  he  said,  "  give  her  to  me,  and  if  there 
is  no  place  for  her,  I'll  find  one." 

42 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  faltered  the  man. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say/'  said  Tom.  "  I'll  take  her  and 
stand  by  her  as  long  as  there  is  breath  in  me;  and  if  the 
day  should  ever  come  in  spite  of  me  when  wrong  befalls 
her,  as  it  befell  her  mother,  some  man  shall  die,  so  help  me 
God!" 

The  warm  Southern  blood  which  gave  to  his  brothers' 
love-songs  the  grace  of  passion,  and  which  made  them  re- 
nowned for  their  picturesque  eloquence  of  speech,  fired  him 
to  greater  fluency  than  was  usual  with  him,  when  he  thought 
of  the  helplessness  of  the  tiny  being  he  held. 

"I  never  betrayed  a  woman  yet,  or  did  one  a  wrong/' 
he  went  on.  "  I'm  not  one  of  the  lucky  fellows  who  win 
their  hearts,"  with  a  great  gulp  in  his  throat.  "  Perhaps 
if  there's  no  one  to  come  between  us,  she  may — may  be 
fond  of  me." 

The  man  gave  him  a  long  look,  as  if  he  was  asking  him- 
self a  question. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  at  last,  "  she  will  be  fond  of  you.  You 
will  be  worthy  of  it.  There  is  no  one  to  lay  claim  to 
her.  Her  mother  lies  dead  among  strangers,  and  her 
father- 
Tor  a  few  moments  he  seemed  to  be  falling  into  a  reverie, 
but  suddenly  a  tremour  seized  him  and  he  struck  one 
clenched  hand  against  the  other. 

"  If  a  man  vowed  to  the  service  of  God  may  make  an 
oath,"  he  said,  "  I  swear  that  if  the  day  ever  dawns  when 
we  stand  face  to  face,  knowing  each  other,  I  will  not  spare 
him!" 

The  child  stirred  in  Tom's  arms  and  uttered  its  first 
sharp  little  cry,  and  as  if  in  answer  to  the  summons,  Aunt 
Mornin  opened  the  door. 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  It's  all  done,"  she  said.  "  Gib  me  de  chile,  Mars  De 
Willerby,  and  go  in  an'  look  at  her." 

When  he  entered  the  little  square  living  room,  Tom 
paused  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  All  was  straight  and  neat 
and  cold.  Among  the  few  articles  in  the  one  small  trunk, 
the  woman  had  found  a  simple  white  dress  and  had  put  it 
on  the  dead  girl.  It  was  such  a  garment  as  almost  every 
girl  counts  among  her  possessions.  Tom  remembered  that 
his  sisters  had  often  worn  such  things. 

"She  looks  very  pretty,"  he  said.  "I  dare  say  her 
mother  made  it  and  she  wore  it  at  home.  0  Lord!  0 
Lord! "  And  with  this  helpless  exclamation,  half  sigh, 
half  groan,  he  turned  away  and  walked  out  of  the  front 
door  into  the  open  air. 

It  was  early  morning  by  this  time,  and  he  passed  into 
the  dew  and  sunlight  not  knowing  where  he  was  going; 
but  once  outside,  the  sight  of  his  horse  tethered  to  a  tree 
at  the  roadside  brought  to  his  mind  the  necessity  of  the 
occasion. 

"  I'll  ride  in  and  see  Steven,"  he  said.  "  It's  got  to  be 
done,  and  it's  no  work  for  him !  " 

When  he  reached  the  Cross-roads  there  were  already  two 
or  three  early  arrivals  lounging  on  the  store-porch  and 
wondering  why  the  doors  were  not  opened. 

The  first  man  who  saw  him,  opened  upon  him  the  usual 
course  of  elephantine  witticisms. 

"  Look  a  yere,  Tom,"  he  drawled,  "  this  ain't  a-gwine  to 
do.  You  a-gittin'  up  'fore  daybreak  like  the  rest  of  us 
folks  and  ridin'  off  Goddlemighty  knows  whar.  It  ain't 
a-gwine  to  do  now.  Whar  air  ye  from  ?  " 

as  he  rode  up  and  dismounted  at  the  porch,  each 
44 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

saw  that  something  unusual  had  happened.    He  tied  his 
horse  and  came  up  the  steps  in  silence. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  when  he  stood  among  them,  "  I  want 
Steven.  I've  been  out  to  the  Hollow,  and  there's  a  job  for 
him  there.  The — the  woman's  dead." 

"Dead!"  they  echoed,  drawing  nearer  to  him  in  their 
excitement.  "  When,  Tom?  " 

"  Last  night.    Mornin's  out  there.    There's  a  child." 

"  Thunder  'n'  molasses!  "  ejaculated  the  only  family  man 
of  the  group,  reflectively.  "  Thunder  'n'  molasses!  "  And 
then  he  began  to  edge  away,  still  with  a  reflective  air,  to- 
wards his  mule. 

"  Boys,"  he  explained,  "  there'd  ought  to  be  some  women 
folks  around.  I'm  gwine  for  Minty,  and  she'll  start  the  rest 
on  'em.  Women  folks  is  what's  needed.  They  kin  kinder 
organize  things  whar  thar's  trouble." 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  "perhaps  you're  right;  but  don't 
send  too  many  of  'em,  and  let  your  wife  tell  'em  to  talk 
as  little  as  possible  and  leave  the  man  alone.  He's  got 
enough  to  stand  up  under." 

Before  the  day  was  over  there  were  women  enough  in  the 
hillside  cabin.  Half  a  dozen  faded  black  calico  riding-skirts 
hung  over  the  saddles  of  half  a  dozen  horses  tethered  in  the 
wood  round  the  house,  while  inside  half  a  dozen  excellent 
souls  disposed  themselves  in  sympathetic  couples  about  the 
two  rooms. 

Three  sat  in  the  front  room,  their  sunbonnets  drawn  well 
down  over  their  faces  in  the  true  mourner's  spirit,  one  at 
the  head  of  the  bed  slowly  moving  a  fan  to  and  fro  over 
the  handkerchief-covered  face  upon  the  pillow.  A  dead 
silence  pervaded  the  place,  except  when  it  was  broken  by 
occasional  brief  remarks  made  in  a  whisper. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  She  was  a  mighty  purty-lookin'  young  critter/'  they 
said.  "  A  sight  younger-lookin'  than  her  man." 

"What's  the  child?" 

"  Gal." 

"  Gal?  That's  a  pity.  Gals  ain't  much  chance  of  hem' 
raised  right  whar  they're  left." 

"  Hain't  they  any  folks,  neither  on  'em  ?  " 

"Nobody  don't  know.  Nobody  hain't  heerd  nothin' 
about  'em.  They  wus  kinder  curi's  about  keepin'  to  them- 
selves." 

"  If  either  on  'em  had  any  folks — even  if  they  wus  only 
sort  o'  kin — they  might  take  the  chile." 

"  Mebbe  they  will.  Seems  to  reason  they  must  have  some 
kin — even  if  they  ain't  nigh." 

Then  the  silence  reigned  again  and  the  woman  at  the 
bed's  head  gave  her  undivided  attention  to  the  slow,  regular 
motion  of  her  palm-leaf  fan. 

In  the  room  beyond  a  small  fire  burned  in  spite  of  the 
warmth  of  the  day,  and  divers  small  tin  cups  and  pipkins 
simmered  before  and  upon  the  cinders  of  it,  Aunt  Mornin 
varying  her  other  duties  by  moving  them  a  shade  nearer  to 
the  heat  or  farther  from  it,  and  stirring  and  tasting  at  in- 
tervals. 

Upon  a  low  rocking-chair  before  the  hearth  sat  the  wife 
of  the  family  man  before  referred  to.  She  was  a  tall,  angu- 
lar creature,  the  mother  of  fifteen,  comprising  in  their  num- 
ber three  sets  of  twins.  She  held  her  snuff-stick  between 
her  teeth  and  the  child  on  her  lap,  with  an  easy  professional 
air. 

"  I  hain't  never  had  to  raise  none  o'  mine  by  hand  since 
Martin  Luther,"  she  remarked.  "I've  been  mighty  glad 
on  it,  for  he  was  a  sight  o'  trouble.  Kinder  colicky  and 

46 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

weakly.  Never  done  no  good  till  we  got  him  off  the  bottle. 
He'd  one  cow's  milk,  too,  all  the  time.  I  was  powerful 
partickerler  'bout  that.  I'd  never  have  raised  him  if  I 
hadn't  bin.  'W  to  this  day  Martin  Luther  hain't  what 
'Poleon  and  Orlando  is." 

"  Dis  yere  chile  ain't  gwine  to  be  no  trouble  to  nobody/' 
put  in  Aunt  Mornin.  "  She's  a  powerful  good  chile  to  begin 
with,  'n'  she's  a  chile  that's  gwine  to  thrive.  She  hain't 
done  no  cryin'  uv  no  consequence  yit,  'n'  whar  a  chile  starts 
out  dat  dar  way  it  speaks  well  for  her.  If  Mornin  had  de 
raisin'  o'  dat  chile,  dar  wouldn't  be  no  trouble  't  all.  Bile 
der  milk  well  'n'  d'lute  down  right,  'n'  a  chile  like  dat  ain't 
gwine  to  have  no  colick.  My  young  Mistis  Mars  D'Willerby 
bought  me  from,  I've  raised  three  o'  hern,  an'  I'm  used  to 
bilin'  it  right  and  d'lutin'  it  down  right.  Bar's  a  heap  in 
de  d'lutin'.  Dis  yere  bottle's  ready  now,  Mis'  Doty,  ef  ye 
want  it." 

"It's  the  very  bottle  I  raised  Martin  Luther  on,"  said 
Mrs.  Doty.  "  It  brings  back  ole  times  to  see  it.  She  takes 
it  purty  well,  don't  she  ?  Massy  sakes!  How  f'erce  she  looks 
for  sich  a  little  thing! " 

Later  in  the  day  there  arose  the  question  of  how  she 
should  be  disposed  of  for  the  night,  and  it  was  in  the  midst 
^f  this  discussion  that  Tom  De  Willoughby  entered. 

"  Thar  ain't  but  one  room;  I  s'pose  he'll  sleep  in  that," 
said  Mrs.  Doty,  "  'n?  the  Lord  knows  he  don't  look  the  kind 
o'  critter  to  know  what  to  do  with  a  chile.  We  hain't  none 
o'  us  seen  him  since  this  mornin'.  I  guess  he's  kinder  wan- 
derin'  round.  Does  any  of  you  know  whar  he  is?  We  might 
ax  what  he  'lows  to  do." 

Tom  bent  down  over  the  child  as  it  lay  in  the  woman's 
lap.  No  one  could  see  his  face. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  know  what  he's  going  to  do,"  he  said.  "  He's  going 
away  to-morrow  after  the  funeral." 

"  'N'  take  the  child?  "  in  a  chorus. 

"No,"  said  Tom,  professing  to  be  deeply  interested  in 
the  unclosing  of  the  small  red  fist.  "  I'm  going  to  take  the 
child." 

There  were  four  sharp  exclamations,  and  for  a  second  or 
so  all  four  women  gazed  at  him  with  open  mouths.  It  was 
Mrs.  Doty  who  first  recovered  herself  sufficiently  to  speak. 
She  gave  him  a  lively  dig  with  her  elbow. 

"  Now,  Tom  D'Willerby,"  she  said,  "  none  of  your  fool- 
in'.  This  yere  ain't  no  time  for  it." 

"Mars  D'Willerby,"  said  Aunt  Mornin,  "  dis  chile's 
mother's  a-lyin'  dead  in  the  nex'  room." 

Tom  stooped  a  trifle  lower.  He  put  out  both  his  hands 
and  took  the  baby  in  them. 

"  I'm  not  foolin',"  he  said,  rather  uncertainly.  "  I'm  in 
earnest,  ladies.  The  mother  is  dead  and  the  man's  going 
away.  There's  nobody  else  to  claim  her,  he  tells  me,  and 
so  I'll  claim  her.  There's  enough  of  me  to  take  care  of 
her,  and  I  mean  to  do  it." 

It  was  so  extraordinary  a  sensation,  that  for  a  few  moments 
there  was  another  silence,  broken  as  before  by  Mrs.  Doty. 

"  Waal,"  she  remarked,  removing  her  snuff-stick  and  ex- 
pectorating into  the  fire.  "  Ye've  allus  been  kinder  fond 
o'  chillun,  Tom,  and  mebbe  she  ain't  as  colicky  by  natur^ 
as  Martin  Luther  was,  but  I  mus'  say  it's  the  curi'sest  thing 
I  ever  heern — him  a-gwine  away  an'  givin'  her  cl'ar  up  as 
ef  he  hadn't  no  sort  o'  nat'ral  feelin's — I  do  say  it's  curi's." 

"He's  a  queer  fellow,"  said  Tom,  "a  queer  fellow! 
There's  no  denying  that." 

That  this  was  true  was  proven  by  his  conduct  during  the 

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In  Connection  with  - 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

time  in  which  it  was  liable  to  public  comment.  Until  night 
he  was  not  seen,  and  then  he  came  in  at  a  late  hour  and, 
walking  in  silence  through  the  roomful  of  watchers,  shut 
himself  up  in  an  inner  chamber  and  remained  there  alone. 

"  He's  takin'  it  mighty  hard,"  they  said.  "  Seems  like 
it's  kinder  onsettled  his  mind.  He  hain't  never  looked  at 
the  child  once." 

He  did  not  appear  at  all  the  next  day  until  all  was  ready 
and  Tom  De  Willoughby  went  to  him. 

He  found  him  lying  on  the  bed,  his  haggard  face  turned 
towards  the  window.  He  did  not  move  until  Tom  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  If  you  want  to  see  her "  he  said. 

He  started  and  shuddered. 

"  What,  so  soon?  "  he  said.    "  So  soon?  " 

"  Now/'  Tom  answered.    "  Get  up  and  come  with  me." 

He  obeyed,  following  him  mechanically,  but  when  they 
reached  the  door,  Tom  stopped  him. 

"  I've  told  them  a  story  that  suits  well  enough,"  he  said. 
"  I've  told  them  that  you're  poor  and  have  no  friends,  and 
can't  care  for  the  child,  and  I've  a  fancy  for  keeping  it. 
The  mother  is  to  lie  out  here  on  the  hillside  until  you  can 
afford  to  find  a  better  place  for  her — perhaps  at  your  own 
home.  I've  told  the  tale  my  own  way.  I'm  not  much  of 
a  hand  at  that  kind  of  thing,  but  it'll  do.  I've  asked  you 
no  questions." 

"  No,"  said  the  man,  drearily.  "  You've  asked  me  no 
questions." 

Then  they  went  together  into  the  other  room.  There  were 
twenty  or  thirty  people  in  it,  or  standing  about  the  door. 
It  was  like  all  mountain  funerals,  but  for  an  air  of  desolate- 
ness  even,  deeper  than  usual  The  slender  pine  coffin  was 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

supported  upon  two  chairs  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
the  women  stood  or  sat  about,  the  more  easily  moved  weep- 
ing a  little  under  the  shadow  of  their  calico  sunbonnets. 
The  men  leaned  against  the  door-posts,  or  sat  on  the  wooden 
steps,  bare-headed,  silent,  and  rather  restless. 

When  Tom  led  his  charge  into  the  apartment,  there  was 
a  slight  stir  and  moving  back  of  chairs  to  make  way  for  him. 
He  made  his  way  straight  to  the  coffin.  When  he  reached 
it  and  looked  down,  he  started.  Perhaps  the  sight  of  the 
white  dress  with  its  simple  girlish  frills  and  homelike  pretti- 
ness  brought  back  to  him  some  memory  of  happier  days 
when -he  had  seen  it  worn  before. 

The  pure,  childlike  face  had  settled  into  utter  calm,  and 
across  the  breast  and  in  the  hands  were  long,  slender  branches 
of  the  thickly  flowering  wild  white  clematis.  Half  an  hour 
before  Tom  had  gone  into  the  woods  and  returned  with  these 
branches,  which  he  gave  to  one  of  the  younger  women. 

"  Put  them  on  her,"  he  said,  awkwardly;  "  there  ought 
to  be  some  flowers  about  her." 

For  a  few  moments  there  reigned  in  the  room  a  dead  si- 
lence. All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  man  who  stood  at  the 
coffin  side.  He  simply  looked  down  at  the  fair  dead  face. 
He  bestowed  no  caresses  upon  it,  and  shed  no  tears,  though 
now  and  then  there  was  to  be  seen  a  muscular  contraction 
of  his  throat. 

At  length  he  turned  towards  those  surrounding  him  and 
raised  his  hand,  speaking  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Let  us  pray." 

It  was  the  manner  of  a  man  trained  to  rigid  religious  ob- 
servances, and  when  the  words  were  uttered,  something  like 
an  electric  shock  passed  through  his  hearers.  The  circuit- 
riders  who  stopped  once  or  twice  a  month  at  the  log  churches 

50 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

on  the  roadside  were  seldom  within  reach  on  such  an  occasion 
as  this,  and  at  such  times  it  was  their  custom  to  depend  on 
any  good  soul  who  was  considered  to  have  the  gift  of  prayer. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  had  been  wondering  who  would  speak 
the  last  words  now,  as  there  was  no  such  person  on  the  spot; 
but  the  trained  manner  and  gesture,  even  while  it  startled 
them  by  its  unexpectedness,  set  their  minds  at  rest. 

They  settled  themselves  in  the  conventional  posture,  the 
women  retiring  into  their  bonnets,  the  men  hanging  their 
heads,  and  the  prayer  began. 

It  was  a  strange  appeal — one  which  only  one  man  among 
them  could  grasp  the  meaning  of,  though  all  regarded  its 
outpouring  words  with  wonder  and  admiration.  It  was  an 
outcry  full  of  passion,  dread,  and  anguish  which  was  like, 
despair.  It  was  a  prayer  for  mercy — mercy  for  those  who 
suffered,  for  the  innocent  who  might  suffer — for  loving 
hearts  too  tender  to  bear  the  bitter  blows  of  life. 

"  The  loving  hearts,  0  God!  "  he  cried,  "  the  loving  hearts 
who  wait — who " 

More  than  one  woman  looked  up  from  under  her  bonnet; 
his  body  began  to  tremble — he  staggered  and  fell  into  a 
chair,  hiding  his  face,  shaking  from  head  to  foot  in  an 
agony  of  weeping.  Tom  made  his  way  to  him  and  bent 
over  him. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said,  his  great  voice  broken.  "  Come 
with  me  into  the  air,  it  will  quiet  you,  and  we  can  wait  until 
— until  they  come." 

He  put  his  arm  under  his  and  supported  him  out  of  the 
house. 

Two  or  three  women  began  to  rock  themselves  to  and  fro 
and  weep  aloud  hysterically.  It  was  only  the  stronger  ones 
who  could  control  themselves.  He  was  standing  at  Tom's 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

side  then;  when  they  came  out  a  short  time  afterwards, 
walking  slowly  and  carrying  the  light  burden,  which  they 
lowered  into  its  resting-place  beneath  the  pines. 

He  was  quite  calm  again,  and  made  no  sound  or  move- 
ment until  all  was  over.  Then  he  spoke  to  Tom. 

"  Tell  them/'  he  said,  "  that  I  thank  them.  I  can  do 
no  more." 

He  walked  back  to  the  desolate  house,  and  in  a  little  while 
the  people  went  their  ways,  each  of  them  looking  back  a 
little  wistfully  at  the  cabin  as  he  or  she  rode  out  of  sight. 

When  the  last  one  was  lost  to  view,  Tom,  who  had  loi- 
tered about,  went  into  the  cabin. 

The  man  was  sitting  in  the  empty  room,  his  gaze  fixed 
upon  the  two  chairs  left  standing  in  the  middle  of  it  a  few 
paces  from  each  other. 

Tom  moved  them  away  and  then  approached  him. 

"  The  child  has  been  taken  to  my  house,"  he  said.  "  You 
don't  want  to  see  it?  " 

"  No." 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do?" 

"  No,  nothing  else,"  monotonously. 

"Are  you  going  away?" 

«  Yes— to-night." 

Tom  glanced  around  him  at  the  desolation  of  the  poor, 
bare  little  place,  at  the  empty  bed,  and  the  small  trunk  at 
the  foot  of  it. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  stay  here  alone,  man?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  answered.  "  I  have  something  to  do;  I 
must  be  alone." 

Tom  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  I  suppose  I've  done,  then. 
Good-bye," 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Good-bye/'  he  was  answered.  "  The  Lord — the  Lord 
will  reward  you." 

And  then  Tom  crossed  the  room  slowly  and  reluctantly, 
passed  out,  and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

When  he  opened  his  own  door,  he  struck  his  foot  against 
something  and  stumbled  over  it.  It  was  a  primitive  wooden 
cradle — somewhat  like  a  box  on  rockers — a  quilt  of  patch- 
work covered  it,  and  upon  the  small  pillow  rested  the  round 
black  head  of  his  new  possession.  He  stopped  short  to 
regard  it.  Aunt  Mornin  had  left  it  there  while  she  occupied 
herself  with  preparing  supper  in  the  kitchen.  It  really 
looked  quite  comfortable.  Gradually  a  smile  established  it- 
self upon  Tom's  countenance. 

"  By  thunder! "  he  said,  "  here  you  are,  youngster,  ain't 
you?  You've  come  to  stay — that's  what  you've  come  for." 

And,  being  answered  by  a  slight  stirring  of  the  patchwork 
quilt,  he  put  his  foot  out  with  much  cautiousness,  touched 
the  rocker,  and,  finding  to  his  great  astonishment  that  he 
had  accomplished  this  much  safely,  he  drew  up  a  chair,  and, 
sitting  down,  devoted  himself  with  laudable  enthusiasm  to 
engineering  the  small  ark  with  a  serious  and  domestic  air. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  two  days'  time  the  whole  country  had  heard  the  news. 
The  mystery  of  Blair's  Hollow  was  revived  and  became  a 
greater  mystery  than  ever.  The  woman  was  dead,,  the  man 
had  disappeared.  The  cabin  stood  deserted,  save  for  the 
few  household  goods  which  had  been  left  just  as  they  were 
on  the  day  of  the  funeral.  Not  an  article  had  been  moved, 
though  the  woman  to  whom  Tom  De  Willoughby,  as  the 
person  most  concerned,  handed  over  the  discarded  property, 
did  not  find  the  little  trunk,  and  noticed  that  articles  had 
been  burned  in  the  fireplace  in  the  front  room. 

"  Thar  wus  a  big  pile  o'  ashes  on  the  ha'th,"  she  said  to 
her  friends,  "  sorter  like  as  if  he'd  been  burnin'  a  heap  a 
little  things  o'  one  sort  or  'nother.  It  kinder  give  me  cold 
chills,  it  looked  so  lonesome  when  I  shut  the  door  arter  the 
truck  was  gone.  I  left  the  ashes  a-lyin'  thar.  I  kinder  had 
a  curi's  feelin'  about  touchin'  on  'em.  Nothing  wouldn't 
hire  me  to  live  thar.  D'Willerby  said  he  reckoned  I  could 
hev  moved  right  in  ef  I  wanted  to,  but,  Lawsy!  I  wouldn't 
have  done  it  fer  nothin'." 

But  that  which  roused  the  greatest  excitement  in  the  com- 
munity was  Tom  De  Willoughby's  course. 

At  first  Mrs.  Doty's  story  of  Big  Tom's  adoption  of  the 
child  was  scarcely  accepted  as  being  a  possibility.  The  first 
man  who  heard  it  received  it  with  a  grin  of  disbelief.  This 
individual  was  naturally  Mr.  Doty  himself. 

54 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Minty,"  he  said,  "  don't  ye  let  him  fool  ye.  Don't  ye 
know  Tom  D'Willerby  by  this  time?  Ye'd  orter.  It's  jest 
some  o'  his  gas.  Don't  ye  s'pose  he  hain't  got  no  more  sense? 
What'dhedowithit?" 

"  Ye  can  believe  it  or  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Doty,  sharply, 
"but  he's  gwine  to  raise  that  young'n,  as  shore  as  your 
name's  Job.  Mornin's  got  her  this  minute." 

Mr.  Doty  indulged  in  a  subdued  chuckle. 

"  A  nice-lookin'  feller  he  is  to  raise  a  infant  babe! "  he 
remarked.  "Lord  a  massy!  if  thet  thar  ain't  jest  like  one 
o'  his  doggoned  tales!  He  is  the  derndest  critter,"  with 
reflective  delight,  "the  derndest!  Thar  ain't  no  thin'  in 
Hamlin  to  come  up  to  him." 

But  the  next  day  even  Mr.  Doty  was  convinced.  After 
his  customary  visit  to  the  Cross-roads,  he  returned  to  his 
family  wearing  a  bewildered  expression.  It  became  a  sheep- 
ish expression  when  his  wife  confronted  him  on  the  doorstep. 

"  Wai,  Job  Doty,"  she  remarked,  "  I  guess  you've  found 
out  by  this  time  whether  I  was  right  or  wrong." 

"Wai,"  answered  Mr.  Doty,  throwing  his  saddle  down 
on  the  porch,  "  I  reckon  I  hev.  She's  thar  shore  enough, 
'n'  it  seems  like  he's  gwine  to  keep  her;  but  I  wouldn't 
hev  believed  it  ef  I  hadn't  seen  it,  doggoned  ef  I  would! 
But,  Lord,  it's  like  him,  arter  all."  And  he  brightened  up 
and  chuckled  again. 

"  I  reckon  he  don't  scarcely  know  what  he's  tuk  in  hand," 
said  Mrs.  Doty. 

"  Him!  "  answered  Mr.  Doty.  "  Tom!  Lord!  'tain't  a- 
gwine  to  trouble  Tom.  He'll  get  along,  Tom  will.  Tom'd 
jus'  as  lief  as  she  wus  twins  as  not,  mebbe  liefer.  It'd  be 
a  bigger  thing  for  him  to  engineer  'n'  gas  about  ef  she  wus. 
Ef  you'd  seen  him  bring  her  into  the  store  to  the  boys  'n? 

55 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

brag  on  her  V  spread  hisself,  I  reckon  ye  wouldn't  hev 
minded  'bout  Tom.  Why,  he's  set  on  her,  Minty,  a'reddy, 
as  set  as  he  kin  be." 

The  Cross-roads  post-office  had  indeed  been  the  scene  of 
a  sort  of  informal  levee  held  by  the  newcomer,  who  had  been 
thus  presented  to  her  fellow-citizens.  One  man  after  an- 
other had  dropped  in  to  hear  the  truth  of  the  story  related, 
and  each  one  had  been  dumfounded  at  the  outset  by  Tom's 
simple  statement  of  fact. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to  keep  her,  boys,"  he  said.  "  She's  in 
the  back  part  of  the  house  now.  According  to  my  calcula- 
tions, she's  drunk  about  three  quarts  of  milk  since  morning, 
and  seems  to  stand  it  pretty  well,  so  I  suppose  she's  all  right." 

There  were  a  great  many  jokes  made  at  first,  and  a  general 
spirit  of  hilariousness  reigned,  but  it  was  observed  by  one 
of  the  keener  witted  ones  that,  despite  his  jocular  tone,  there 
was  an  underlying  seriousness  in  Tom's  air  which  might 
argue  that  he  felt  the  weight  of  his  responsibility.  When 
the  women  began  to  come  in,  as  they  did  later  in  the  day, 
he  received  them  with  much  cordiality,  rising  from  his  chair 
to  shake  hands  with  each  matron  as  she  appeared. 

"  Come  in  to  see  her,  have  you?  "  he  said.  "  That's  right. 
She's  in  the  back  room.  Walk  right  in.  Mis'  Simpson  and 
Mis'  Lyle,  I'd  like  some  of  you  ladies  to  have  a  look  at  her. 
I'll  go  with  you  myself  and  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

He  made  the  journey  each  time  with  a  slight  air  of  anxi- 
ety, leading  the  way  to  the  wooden  cradle,  and  standing  over 
it  like  a  Herculean  guardian  angel,  listening  attentively  to 
all  the  comments  made  and  all  the  advice  given. 

"  She  seems  to  be  getting  on  pretty  well,  doesn't  she?  " 
he  enquired. 

"  Lor',  yes!  "  said  one  matron;  "  jest  keep  her  kivered  up 

56 


In   Connection   with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

'n'  don't  let  no  air  strike  her,  'n'  ye  won't  hev  no  trouble 
with  her,  I  reckon." 

"  No  air?  "  enquired  Tom,  in  some  trepidation;  "  none 
at  all?" 

"  Wai,  thet's  my  way/'  was  the  answer.  "  Some  folks  does 
diffrent,  but  I  didn't  never  expose  'em  none  till  they  was 
more'n  a  month  old.  New-born  babies  is  tender  things! " 

"  Yes/'  said  Tom.    "  Good  Lord,  yes!  " 

His  visitor  started  at  him  perplexedly  for  a  moment. 

"  Wai,"  she  said.  "  My  man  allus  used  to  say  they  kinder 
skeered  him  'long  at  the  first — he  kinder  felt  as  if  they'd 
mebbe  come  apart,  or  sumthin'.  They  allus  sorter  'minded 
me  o'  young  mice.  Wai,  you  jest  tell  Mornin  to  giv'  her 
es  much  milk  as  she  calls  fer,  an'  don't  let  it  bile  too  long, 
'n'  she'll  come  on  fine." 

The  next  visitor  that  entered  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
dismay. 

"  Ye're  gwine  ter  kill  her! "  she  said.  "  Thar  ain't  a 
breath  o'  air  in  the  room,  'n'  thar  ain't  nothin'  a  new-born 
baby  wants  more  'n  plenty  o'  air.  They're  tender  critters, 
'n'  they  cayn't  stand  to  be  smothered  up.  Ye'll  hev  her  in 
spasms  afore  the  day's  over." 

Tom  flung  the  doors  and  windows  open  in  great  alarm. 

"  It  is  hot,"  he  said.  "  It's  hot  enough  out  of  doors,  but 
Mis'  Simpson  told  me  to  keep  her  shut  up,  and  I  thought 
she'd  had  experience  enough  to  know." 

"  Jane  Simpson!  "  with  ill-concealed  scorn.  "  She'd  or- 
ter!  She's  had  six  to  die  in  their  second  summer.  I  reckon 
she  told  ye  to  give  her  half-b'iled  milk  as  often  as  she  wanted 
it?" 

Tom  reflected  in  manifest  trepidation. 

"  She  did  tell  me  not  to  boil  it  too  much,  and  to  give  it 
to  her  when  she  called  for  it,"  he  said,  slowly. 

57 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Wai,  if  ye  don't  want  ter  kill  her,  take  my  advice  an' 
bile  it  a  good  half  hour,  'n'  don't  give  it  to  her  oftener  than 
once  in  three  hours.  She'll  cry  fur  it,  but  ye  needn't  mind. 
Ye'll  get  used  ter  it.  I  don't  believe  in  lettin'  young  uns 
hev  nuthin'  out  o'  their  reg'lar  time." 

The  next  caller  found  Tom  somewhat  discouraged.  He 
preceded  her  into  the  reception-chamber  with  less  alacrity 
than  he  had  shown  in  his  previous  visits. 

She  was  a  younger  woman  than  the  rest,  and  when  she 
reached  the  cradle's  side,  she  bent  down  and  rearranged  the 
cover  with  a  soft  touch. 

"  She's  gwine  to  be  a  purty  little  thing,"  she  said;  "  she'll 
be  sorter  dark-complected,  but  she's  gwine  to  hev  purty  hair 
V  eyes.  Ye'll  be  right  proud  of  her,  Tom,  when  she's 
grown,  'n'  I  guess  she'll  be  a  heap  o'  company  to  you. 
Lord!"  with  a  motherly  sigh,  "it  seems  sorter  curi's  her 
bein'  left  to  a  man;  but  you'll  do  well  by  her,  Tom,  you'll 
do  well  by  her.  I  hain't  no  doubt  o'  that.  You  was  always 
mighty  clever  with  children." 

"  I'll  do  all  I  can  for  her,"  said  Tom,  "  though  I  suppose 
that  isn't  much." 

The  young  woman — she  had  left  her  own  baby  in  the 
store  with  her  husband — patted  the  little  pillow  lightly  into 
shape. 

"  Ye'll  larn  a  heap  by  watchin'  her,"  she  said.  "  Jest 
watch  her  close  'n'  she'll  teach  you  herself.  What  do  you 
do  about  her  milk?  "  anxiously. 

"  I've  been  told  to  do  several  things,"  said  Tom.  "  I've 
been  told  to  boil  it  half  an  hour  and  not  to  boil  it  at  all, 
and  to  give  her  all  she  wanted  and  not  to  give  her  all  she 
wanted.  I'm  a  little  mixed  about  it." 

"  Wai,  I  hain't  had  but  five,  but  I've  allus  let  it  come 

58 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

to  a  bile  an'  then  kinder  used  my  reason  about  givin'  it. 
\  Seems  like  the  mejumer  ye  air  with  children,  the  better. 
jiJiit,  Lordy!    I  guess  Mornin  knows.    She  raised  her  young 
mistress's." 

She  kissed  the  child  before  she  left  it,  and  when  she  re- 
entered  the  store,  hurriedly  took  her  own  struggling  off- 
spring from  its  father's  arms,  settled  its  pink  dress  and 
sunbonnet  with  a  nervous,  caressing  motion,  and,  carrying 
it  to  the  door,  stood  with  it  pressed  against  her  breast  while 
she  seemed  to  be  looking  out  at  the  distant  mountains.  She 
did  not  move  until  her  husband  had  completed  his  pur- 
chases and  came  to  her.  And  when  she  followed  him  out 
to  take  her  place  in  the  waggon,  her  eyes  were  bright  and 
moist. 

"  Don't  ye  take  the  Blair's  Holler  road,  Dave/'  she  said, 
as  he  touched  up  his  horses.  "  Go  round  by  Jones's." 

"What's  yer  notion,  Louizy?"  he  asked. 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  but  a  notion,  I  reckon,"  she  answered; 
"  but  I  don't — I  don't  want  to  hev  to  pass  by  that  thar  grave 
jest  to-day.  Take  the  other  road." 

And  being  an  easy-going,  kindly  fellow,  he  humoured  her 
and  went  the  other  way. 

5  In  the  store  itself  the  spirit  of  hilariousness  increased 
•is  the  day  advanced.  By  mail-time  the  porch  was  crowded 
and  Tom  had  some  slight  difficulty  in  maintaining  order. 

"  Say,  boys,"  he  said,  "  there's  got  to  be  quiet  here.  If 
we  can't  carry  on  the  establishment  without  disturbing  the 
head  of  the  household  at  present  asleep  in  the  back  room, 
this  post-office  has  to  close  and  you  can  get  a  new  postmaster. 
That'd  suit  you,  I  daresay.  Some  fellow,  now,  that  wouldn't 
half  'tend  to  his  business,  not  more  than  half,  and  that  hadn't 
legislative  ability  enough  to  carry  on  a  precinct,  let  alone 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

a  county.    You  want  a  man  of  that  kind,  I  suppose.    That's 
what  you're  working  for." 

"  Tom/'  said  one  of  the  younger  ones,  "  bring  her  out  'n' 
let's  see  her.  You've  been  braggin'  on  her  all  day,  but  ye 
hain't  let  us  see  her." 

Half  a  dozen  others  joined  in  the  cry. 

"  Yes,"  they  said,  "  bring  her  out,  Tom." 

Tom  did  not  rise  from  his  seat.  He  tilted  his  chair  back 
and  balanced  himself  on  his  heels,  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  I'll  bring  her  out  on  one  condition, 
and  that  is  that  there  shall  be  no  shines.  I  wouldn't 
have  her  scared  or  upset  for  a  good  deal.  There's  a  joke 
in  this  sort  of  thing,  I  daresay;  but  it  ain't  all  joke.  If 
I  bring  her  out  and  show  her,  there's  to  be  no  crowding 
and  no  row." 

It  was  agreed  that  there  should  be  none,  and  he  left  his 
chair  and  went  to  the  inner  room  again.  When  he  returned, 
the  men  who  had  been  lounging  in  the  porch  had  come  in, 
though  perhaps  not  one  among  them  understood  his  own 
unusual  interest  in  the  affair.  Babies  were  not  rarities  in 
Hamlin  County,  every  cabin  and  farmhouse  in  the  region 
being  filled  to  overflowing  with  white-headed,  sunburnt 
youngsters.  And  yet  when  Tom  appeared  there  was  a  mo- 
ment of  silence.  The  child  was  asleep,  its  tiny  black  head 
resting  peacefully  against  the  huge  chest  of  its  bearer.  There 
was  no  trace  of  confusion  or  awkwardness  in  his  face,  he 
.seemed  well  content  with  his  burden,  and  perhaps  it  was 
the  quiet  of  his  manner  as  much  as  anything  else  which 
caused  the  slight  hush  to  fall  upon  those  around  him. 

At  last  a  middle-aged  farmer  stepped  forward.  He  gave 
the  child  a  long  and  rather  curious  look. 

60 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Gal,  ain't  it?  "  he  enquired. 

"  Yes/'  Tom  answered. 

"  Wai,  'tain't  a  bad  thing  f er  her  she's  got  some  un  to 
stan'  by  her;  gals  needs  it." 

Torn  gave  her  a  long  look  too.  She  was  sleeping  very 
quietly;  it  might  have  been  her  mother's  breast  she  was 
lying  against. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  here's  a  man  to  stand  by  her,"  and  then 
he  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  the  rest  of  them. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  "  that's  a  promise.    Remember  it." 

And  he  carried  her  back. 


CHAPTEE   VI 

THE  rooms  at  the  back  had  never  seemed  so  quiet  before 
as  when,  at  the  close  of  the  day,  he  went  into  them.  They 
seemed  all  the  quieter  by  contrast  with  the  excitement  of 
the  past  hours.  In  the  kitchen  Mornin  was  giving  the  final 
touches  to  the  supper,  and  in  the  room  which  was  at  once 
sitting-room  and  bedroom,  the  wooden  cradle  had  fitted  itself 
in  a  corner  near  the  fireplace  and  wore  an  air  of  permanent 
establishment  remarkable  to  contemplate  when  one  consid- 
ered how  unlooked-for  an  incident  it  was. 

On  the  threshold  of  this  apartment  Tom  paused  a  moment. 
Such  silence  reigned  that  he  could  hear  the  soft,  faint  breath- 
ing of  the  child  as  it  lay  asleep.  He  stopped  a  second  or 
so  to  listen  to  it.  Then  he  stooped  down,  and  began  to 
loosen  his  shoes  gently.  As  he  was  doing  it,  Mornin  caught 
sight  of  him  in  passing  the  open  door. 

"  Mars  Tom,"  she  said,  "  what's  ye  a-gwine  fer  to  do?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  take  them  off,"  he  answered,  seriously. 
"  They'll  make  too  much  noise." 

The  good  soul  in  the  kitchen  chuckled. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  now,  Mars  Tom,  dar  ye  go  right  now 
a-settin'  out  to  ruinate  a  good  chile,  'stead  o'  ustin'  it  ter 
things — a-settin'  out  ter  ruinate  it.  Don't  never  tip  aroun' 
fer  no  chile.  Don't  ye  never  do  it,  'n'  ye  won't  never  haf  ter. 
Tippin'  roun'  jest  spiles  'em.  Tell  ye,  Mornin  never  tipped 
roun'  when  she  had  em'  ter  raise.  Mornm  started  out  right 
from  de  fust." 

Tom  looked  at  the  cradle. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  She'll  rest  easier,"  he  said.  "  And  so  shall  I.  I  must 
get  a  pair  of  slippers/'  And  he  slipped  out  of  his  shoes  and 
stood  ready  to  spend  the  evening  in  his  stocking-feet.  A 
solitary  tallow  candle  stood  upon  the  table,  shedding  its 
yellow  light  upon  all  surrounding  objects  to  the  best  of  its 
ability,  and,  seeing  that  its  flickering  brightness  fell  upon 
the  small  sleeper's  face,  he  placed  it  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  high  mantel. 

"  She'll  be  more  comfortable,"  he  said.  And  then  sat 
down  feeling  at  ease  with  his  conscience. 

Mornin  went  back  to  her  supper  shaking  her  head. 

"  By  de  time  she's  a  year  old,  dar  won't  be  no  managin' 
her,"  she  said.  "  Da's  allus  de  way  wid  de  men  folks,  allus 
too  hard  or  too  soft;  better  leav'  her  to  Mornin  'n'  ust'n  her 
to  things  right  at  de  start." 

There  seemed  little  chance  that  she  would  be  so  "ust- 
ened."  Having  finished  his  supper,  Tom  carried  his  pipe 
and  newspaper  into  the  kitchen. 

"  I'll  sit  here  awhile,"  he  said.  "  The  smoke  might  be 
too  much  for  her,  and  the  paper  rustles  so.  We'd  better  let 
her  have  her  sleep  out." 

But  when  the  pipe  was  out  and  the  last  page  of  the  paper 
read,  he  went  back  to  his  own  room.  The  small  ark  stranded 
in  his  chimney  corner  was  attractive  enough  to  draw  him 
there.  It  was  a  stronger  attraction  than  it  would  have  been 
to  most  men.  He  had  always  been  fond  of  children  and 
curious  concerning  them.  There  was  not  a  child  in  the  sur- 
rounding region  who  had  not  some  remembrance  of  his 
rather  too  lavish  good-nature.  A  visit  to  the  Cross-roads  was 
often  held  out  as  a  reward  for  circumspect  behaviour,  and 
the  being  denied  the  treat  was  considered  punishment  heavy 
enough  for  most  juvenile  crimes. 

63 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Ef  ye'd  had  young  uns  of  yer  own,  Tom,  ye'd  hcv  ruined 
them,  shore,"  the  secretly  delighted  matrons  frequently  re- 
marked. "  You'd  let  'em  run  right  over  ye.  I  reckon  ye 
keep  that  candy  thar  right  a-purpose  to  feed  'em  on  now, 
don't  yer?" 

His  numerous  admirers,  whose  affection  for  him  was 
founded  on  their  enjoyment  of  his  ponderous  witticisms 
and  the  humour  which  was  the  little  leavening  of  their  un- 
exciting lives,  had  once  or  twice  during  the  past  few  days 
found  themselves  unprepared  for,  and  so  somewhat  bewil- 
dered by,  the  new  mood  which  had  now  and  then  revealed 
itself. 

"  It's  kinder  outer  Tom's  way  to  take  things  like  he  takes 
this;  it  looks  onnat'ral,"  they  said. 

If  they  had  seen  him  as  he  drew  up  to  the  cradle's  side, 
they  would  have  discovered  that  they  were  confronting  a 
side  of  the  man  of  which  they  knew  nothing.  It  was  the 
man  whose  youth  had  been  sore-hearted  and  desolate,  while 
he  had  been  too  humble  to  realise  that  it  was  so,  and  with 
reason.  If  he  had  known  lonely  hours  in  the  past  eight 
years,  only  the  four  walls  of  the  little  back  room  had  seen 
them.  He  had  always  enacted  his  role  well  outside;  but  it 
was  only  natural  that  the  three  silent  rooms  must  have 
seemed  too  empty  now  and  again.  As  he  bent  over  the 
cradle,  he  remembered  such  times,  and  somehow  felt  as  if 
they  were  altogether  things  of  the  past  and  not  to  trouble 
him  again. 

"  She'll  be  life  in  the  place,"  he  said.  "  When  she  sleeps 
less  and  is  old  enough  to  make  more  noise,  it  will  be  quite 
cheerful." 

He  spoke  with  the  self-congratulating  innocence  of  inex- 
perience. A  speculative  smile  settled  upon  his  countenance. 


In   Connection  with 

The   De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  When  she  begins  to  crawl  around  and — and  needs  look- 
ing after,  it  will  be  lively  enough,"  he  reflected.  "  She'll 
keep  us  busy,  I  daresay." 

It  was  a  circumstance  perhaps  worthy  of  mention  that  he 
never  spoke  of  the  little  creature  as  "  it." 

"  She'll  need  a  good  deal  of  looking  after,"  he  went  on. 
"  It  won't  do  to  let  her  tumble  around  and  take  care  of 
herself,  as  a  boy  might.  We  must  be  tender  of  her." 

He  bent  forward  and  drew  the  cover  cautiously  over  the 
red  flannel  sleeve. 

"  They  think  it  a  good  joke,  those  fellows,"  he  said;  "  but 
it  isn't  a  joke  with  us,  is  it,  young  woman?  We've  a  pretty 
big  job  to  engineer  between  us,  but  I  daresay  we  shall  come 
out  all  right.  We  shall  be  good  friends  in  the  end,  and 
that's  a  pretty  nice  thing  for  a  lonely  fellow  to  look  for- 
ward to." 

Then  he  arose  stealthily  and  returned  to  the  kitchen. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me,"  he  said  to  Mornin,  "  what  she 
needs.  I  suppose  she  needs  something  or  other." 

"  She  needs  mos'  everything,  Mars  Tom,"  was  the  answer; 
"  seems  like  she  hain't  bin  pervided  fer  't  all,  no  more  'n  ef 
she  was  a-gwine  ter  be  a  youn'  tukky  dat  de  Lord  hisself 
hed  fitted  out  at  de  start." 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  "I'll  go  to  Barnesville  to-morrow 
and  talk  to  Judge  Eutherford's  wife  about  it.  She'll  know 
what  she  ought  to  have." 

And,  after  a  few  moments  given  to  apparently  agreeable 
reflection,  he  went  back  to  the  room  he  had  left. 

He  had  barely  seated  himself,  however,  when  he  was  dis- 
turbed by  a  low-sounding  tap  on  the  side  door,  which  stood 
so  far  open  as  to  allow  of  any  stray  evening  breeze  entering 
without  reaching  the  corner  of  the  chimney. 


In   Connection  with 

The   De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Come  in! "  said  Tom,  not  in  a  friendly  roar,  as  usual, 
but  in  a  discreetly  guarded  voice. 

The  door  was  pushed  gently  open  and  the  visitor  stood 
revealed,  blinking  with  an  impartial  air  at  the  light 
within. 

"  Don't  push  it  wide  open,"  said  Tom;  "  come  in  if  you 
are  going  to,  and  leave  it  as  it  was." 

Mr.  Stamps  obeyed  without  making  any  noise  whatever. 
It  was  one  of  his  amiable  peculiarities  that  he  never  made 
any  noise,  but  appeared  and  disappeared  without  giving  any 
warning,  making  himself  very  agreeable  thereby  at  inoppor- 
tune moments.  He  slipped  in  without  a  sound,  deftly  left 
the  door  in  its  previous  position,  and  at  once  slipped  into 
a  chair,  or  rather  took  possession  of  one,  by  balancing  him- 
self on  the  extreme  edge  of  it,  arranging  his  legs  on  the 
lower  bar  with  some  dexterity. 

"  Howdy?"  he  said,  meekly,  having  accomplished  this. 

Tom's  manner  was  not  cordial.  He  stretched  himself,  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  made  no  response  to  the  greet- 
ing which  was,  upon  the  whole,  a  rather  unnecessary  one, 
as  Mr.  Stamps  had  been  hanging  about  the  post-office 
through  the  whole  day,  and  had  only  wended  his  way  home- 
ward a  few  hours  before. 

"  Want  anything?  "  he  enquired. 

Mr.  Stamps  turned  his  hat  around  in  his  hands  hurriedly. 

"  No,  I  don't  want  nothin',  Tom,"  he  said.  Then,  after 
a  pause,  he  added,  very  softly: 

"  I  jest  thought  I'd  step  in." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  asked  Tom. 

The  kat  was  turned  round  again. 

"Whar  wus  I  a-gwine?"  deprecatingly.  "  Whar?  Oh! 
J — I  was  a-gwine — I  was  a-gwine  to  Marthy's,  I  guess," 

66 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"You're  pretty  late/'  remarked  Tom;  "better  lose  no 
time;  it's  a  pretty  bad  road  between  here  and  there." 

"  So  'tis,"  replied  Mr.  Stamps,  apparently  struck  with  the 
originality  of  the  suggestion.  "  So  'tis!  "  He  appeared  to 
reflect  deeply  for  a  few  seconds,  but  suddenly  his  eyes  began 
to  wander  across  the  room  and  rested  finally  upon  the  corner 
in  which  the  cradle  stood.  He  jerked  his  head  towards  it. 

"  It's  thar,  is  it?  "  he  enquired. 

"  Yes,  she's  thar,"  Tom  answered,  rather  crustily. 
"What  of  it?" 

"  Oh!  nothin',  nothin',  Tom,  only  it's  kinder  curi's — 
kinder  curi's." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  "  I've  not  begun  to  look  at  it  in  that 
light  yet  myself." 

"  Hain't  ye,  now?  "  softly.    "  Hain't  ye,  Tom?  " 

Then  a  faint  little  chuckle  broke  from  him — not  an  intru- 
sive chuckle,  quite  the  contrary;  a  deprecatory  and  inad- 
vertent sort  of  chuckle. 

"  That  ain't  me,"  he  ventured,  inoffensively.  "  I've  been 
a-thinkin'  it  was  curi's  all  along." 

"  That  ain't  going  to  hurt  anybody,"  responded  Tom. 

"  Lord,  no!  "  quite  in  a  hurry.  "  Lord,  no!  'tain't  likely; 
but  it  kinder  int'rusted  me — int'rusted  me,  findin'  out  what 
I  did." 

And  he  ended  with  a  gently  suggestive  cough. 

Tom  thrust  his  hands  deeper  into  his  pockets  and  covered 
as  large  an  area  of  floor  with  his  legs  as  was  possible  without 
upsetting  Mr.  Stamps's  chair  and  at  the  same  time  that 
stealthy  little  man  himself. 

"  Oh!  found  out!  "  he  replied,  "  Found  out  h " 

He  checked  himself  with  much  suddenness,  glancing  at 
the  cradle  as  he  did  so. 

67 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"What  did  you  find  out?"  he  demanded,  unceremoni- 
ously, and  with  manifest  contempt.  "  Let's  hear." 

Mr.  Stamps  coughed  again. 

"  'Twan't  much,  mebbe,"  he  replied,  cautiously,  "  Jn'  then 
again,  mebbe  'twas.  It  was  kinder  int'rusting,  though.  That 
— that  thar  was  a  good  prayer  o'  his'n,  warn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Tom,  rather  blust^ringly.  "  I  daresay 
it  was;  I  suppose  you  are  a  better  judge  of  prayers  than  I 
am." 

"  I'm  a  purty  good  judge  on  'em,"  modestly.  "  I'd  orter 
be,  bein'  a  class-leader  'n'  uster  kinder  critykisin'.  I  don't 
never  do  it  much  in  public  myself,  but  I've  allus  critikised 
them  as  did.  Thet  sounded  more  professionaller  then  they 
air  mostly — unless  comin'  frum  them  as  has  bin  raised 
to  it." 

"  Did  it?  "said  Tom. 

"  Yes,  it  was  more  professionaller." 

Then  he  turned  his  hat  again,  setting  it  more  carefully 
on  his  knee.  He  also  fixed  his  eyes  on  Tom  with  a  harm- 
less smile. 

"  They  wus  North'ners." 

Tom  started,  but  managed  to  recover  himself. 

"  You  might  have  mentioned  that  before,"  he  remarked, 
with  sarcasm. 

"  I  did,"  said  Mr.  Stamps,  "  along  at  the  start,  Tom; 
but  ye  wouldn't  none  on  ye  believe  me." 

Tom  remembered  that  this  was  true,  it  having  been  Mr. 
Stamps  who  suggested  the  Northern  theory  which  had  been 
so  unitedly  scouted  by  his  hearers  at  the  time  of  its  pro- 
pounding. 

"  I  h'ain't  stayed  as  stiddy  in  North  Car'lina  as  the  rest 
pn  'em,"  repeated  Mr.  Stamps.  "  When  I  was  younger,  I 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

kinder  launched  out  wunct.  I  thought  I  could  make  money 
faster  ef  I  wus  in  a  more  money-makin'er  place,  V  I 
launched  out.  I  went  North  a  spell  V  was  thar  a  right 
smart  while.  I  sorter  stedded  the  folks'  ways  'n'  I  got  to 
knowin7  'em  when  I  seed  'em  'n'  heerd  'em  talk.  I  know'd 
her  for  one  the  minit  I  set  eyes  on  her  'n'  heern  her  speak. 
I  didn't  say  nuthin'  much  to  the  rest  on  ye,  'cause  I  know's 
ye'd  make  light  on  it;  but  I  know'd  it  wus  jest  that  ar  way 
with  the  Northerners." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom, "iff  valuable  information,  I  suppose." 

Mr.  Stamps  coughed.  He  turned  his  hat  over  and  looked 
into  its  greasy  and  battered  crown  modestly. 

"  It  mout  be,"  he  replied,  "  'n'  then  again  it  moughtent. 
It  moughtent  be  if  thar'  wus  nuthin'  else  to  go  'long  with 
it.  They  wus  hidin'  sumthin',  ye  know,  'n'  they  sot  a  heap 
on  keepin'  it  hid.  Ef  a  body  know'd  the  whole  thing  from 
the  start,  thet'd  be  int'rustin',  'n'  it  'ud  be  vallyable  too." 

"  Valuable  be  d "  Tom  began,  but  he  checked  him- 
self once  more  on  glancing  at  the  cradle. 

But  Mr.  Stamps  was  so  far  interested  that  he  did  not 
read  the  warning  he  might  have  read  in  the  suddenly  re- 
pressed outbreak.  As  he  neared  his  goal  he  became  a  little 
excited  and  incautious.  He  leaned  forward,  blinking  rap- 
idly. 

"  They  wasn't  no  man  'n'  wife,"  he  said.  "  Lord,  no! 
'N'  ef  the  two  as  knowed  most  on  'em  'n'  was  kinder  quickest 
at  readin'  signs  'd  kinder  go  partners  'n'  heve  confydence  in 
one  another,  V  sorter  lay  to  'n'  work  it  out  'n'  foller  it  up, 
it  ud  be  vallybler  than  stores,  or  post-offices,  or  farms  to 
both  on  'em."  And  he  leaned  so  far  forward  and  blinked 
so  fast  that  he  lost  his  balance  and  almost  fell  off  his  chair. 

It  was  Tom  who  saved  him  from  his  fall,  but  not  from 

69 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

that  tender  consideration  for  his  physical  security  which 
such  an  act  would  argue.  Tom  gathered  up  his  legs  and 
strode  across  to  him  almost  before  he  had  finished  speak- 
ing. For  the  time  being  he  had  apparently  forgotten  the 
cradle  and  its  occupant.  He  seized  the  little  man  by  the 
back  of  his  collar  and  lifted  him  bodily  out  of  his  chair 
and  shook  him  as  a  huge  mastiff  might  have  shaken  a  rat, 
agitating  the  little  legs  in  the  large  trousers  with  a  force 
which  gave  them,  for  a  few  seconds,  the  most  active  em- 
ployment. 

"  You  confounded,  sneaking,  underhanded  little  thief! '' 
he  thundered.  "  You  damned  little  scoundrel!  You — 
you " 

And  he  bore  him  out  of  doors,  set  him  struggling  astride 
his  mule  which  was  cropping  the  grass,  and  struck  that 
sagacious  animal  a  blow  upon  her  quarters  which  sent  her 
galloping  along  the  Barnesville  Road  at  a  pace  which 
caused  her  rider  to  cling  to  her  neck  and  body  with  arms  and 
legs,  in  which  inconvenient  posture  he  remained,  unable 
to  recover  himself,  for  a  distance  of  at  least  half  a  mile. 

Tom  returned  to  the  back  room  in  some  excitement.  As 
he  crossed  the  threshold,  he  was  greeted  by  a  shrill  cry 
from  the  cradle.  He  ruefully  regarded  the  patchwork  quilt 
which  seemed  to  be  struggling  violently  with  some  unseen 
agency. 

"  Doggone  him!  "  he  said,  innocently,  "  he's  wakened  her 
—wakened  her,  by  thunder!  " 

And  he  sat  down,  breathing  heavily  from  his  bodily  ex- 
ertion, and  began  to  rock  the  cradle  with  a  vigour  and  grav- 
ity which  might  have  been  expected  to  achieve  great  re- 
sults, if  Mornin  had  not  appeared  and  taken  his  charge  into 
her  own  hands. 

70 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  next  day  Tom  went  to  Barnesville.  He  left  the 
Cross-roads  on  horseback  early  in  the  morning,  and  reached 
his  journey's  end  at  noon.  He  found  on  arriving  at  the 
town  that  the  story  of  his  undertaking  had  preceded  him. 

When  he  drew  rein  before  Judge  Eutherf ord's  house  and 
having  dismounted  and  tied  his  horse  to  the  fence,  entered 
the  gate,  the  Judge's  wife  came  out  upon  the  porch  to 
meet  him  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

She  greeted  him  with  a  smile. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  must  say  I  am  glad  to  see  you. 
The  Judge  brought  us  a  nice  story  from  the  country  yes- 
terday. What  have  you  been  doing  at  the  Cross-roads? 
I  told  the  Judge  I  didn't  believe  a  word  of  it.  There,  sit 
down  in  this  chair  and  tell  me  right  away." 

"  Well,"  answered  Tom  in  a  business-like  manner,  "  it's 
true  or  I  shouldn't  be  here  to-day.  I've  come  to  ask  your 
advice  about — well,  about  things  in  general." 

Mrs.  Eutherford  uttered  a  little  cry  of  delighted  curios- 
ity and  surprise. 

"  Gracious! "  she  exclaimed,  "  I  never  heard  such  a 
thing!  Mother! "  turning  her  head  to  call  to  someone  in 
the  room  beyond,  "  it's  all  true  about  the  baby.  Do  come 
and  hear  Mr.  De  Willoughby  tell  about  it." 

She  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  the  porch  laughing  and  yet 
regarding  Tom  with  a  half  sympathetic,  half  curious  look. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  found  him  unexpectedly 
mysterious, 

n 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"Where's  the  father?"  she  said.  "Didn't  he  care  for 
the  poor  little  thing  at  all?  The  Judge  heard  that  he  was 
so  poor  that  he  couldn't  take  care  of  it.  Hadn't  he  any 
friends?  It  has  a  kind  of  heartless  sound  to  me — his  going 
away  that  way." 

"  He  was  poor,"  said  Tom,  quietly.  "  And  he  had  no 
relatives  who  could  take  the  child.  He  didn't  know  what 
to  do  with  it.  I — I  think  he  had  a  chance  of  making  a 
living  out  West  and — the  blow  seemed  to  have  stunned 
him." 

"  And  you  took  the  baby?  "  put  in  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

"  Yes,"  Tom  answered,  "  I  took  the  baby." 

"Is  it  a  pretty  baby?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  "  I  think  it  is." 

Just  then  the  Judge's  mother  came  out  and  he  was 
called  upon  to  tell  the  story  again,  when  it  was  received 
with  interest  even  more  excited  and  wondering  than  before. 
The  older  Mrs.  Eutherford  exclaimed  and  looked  dubious 
alternately. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  what  to  do  with  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Tom,  "  I'm  not.  I  suppose  I  shall  have 
to  educate  myself  up  to  it  gradually.  There'll  be  a  good 
deal  to  learn,  I  suppose." 

But  he  did  not  appear  at  all  discouraged,  and  presently 
broached  the  object  of  his  visit,  displaying  such  modest 
readiness  to  accept  advice  and  avail  himself  of  all  oppor- 
tunities for  acquiring  valuable  information,  that  his  young 
hostess  was  aroused  to  the  deepest  admiration,  and  when 
he  proceeded  to  produce  quite  a  large  memorandum  book 
with  a  view  to  taking  an  immediate  list  of  all  required  ar- 
ticles, and  established  rules,  she  could  scarcely  contain  her 
delight. 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  want  to  do  it  all  up  in  the  proper  way,"  he  said. 

Thereupon  he  was  borne  into  the  house  and  a  consulta- 
tion of  the  most  serious  practical  nature  was  held.  Piles 
of  the  last  baby's  pretty  garments  being  produced  to  illus- 
trate any  obscure  point.  The  sight  of  those  garments  with 
their  embroidery  and  many  frills  fired  Tom  with  new  en- 
thusiasm. He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  pick  up 
one  after  another  of  the  prettiest  and  most  elaborate  and 
hold  them  out  at  arm's  length,  his  fingers  stuck  through 
the  sleeves  the  better  to  survey  and  display  them  to  ad- 
vantage. 

"  Yes,"  he  kept  saying,  "  that's  the  kind  of  thing  she 
wants — pretty  and  with  plenty  of  frills." 

He  seemed  to  set  his  heart  especially  upon  this  abundance 
of  frills  and  kept  it  in  view  throughout  the  entire  arrange- 
ments. Little  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  to  take  charge  of  the 
matter,  purchasing  all  necessaries  and  superintending  the 
work  of  placing  it  in  competent  hands. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  laughing  at  him  delightedly,  "  she'll  be 
the  best  dressed  baby  in  the  county." 

"  I'd  like  her  to  be  among  the  best,"  said  Tom,  with  a 
grave  face,  "  among  the  best." 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Rutherford  laughed  a  little  again,  and 
then  quite  suddenly  stopped  and  regarded  him  for  a  mo- 
ment with  some  thoughtfulness. 

"  He  has  some  curious  notions  about  that  baby,  mo- 
ther," she  said  afterwards.  "  I  can  see  it  in  all  he  says. 
Everyone  mightn't  understand  it.  I'm  not  sure  I  do  my- 
self, but  he  has  a  big,  kind  heart,  that  Tom  de  Willoughby, 
a  big,  kind  heart." 

She  understood  more  clearly  the  workings  of  the  big, 
kind  heart  before  he  left  them  the  next  morning. 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

At  night  after  she  Jiad  put  her  child  to  sleep,  she  joined 
him  on  the  front  porch,  where  he  sat  in  the  moonlight,  and 
there  he  spoke  more  fully  to  her. 

He  had  seated  himself  upon  the  steps  of  the  porch  and 
wore  a  deeper  reflective  air,  as  he  played  with  a  spray  of 
honeysuckle  he  had  broken  from  its  vine. 

She  drew  up  her  rocking-chair  and  sat  down  near  him. 

"  I  actually  believe  you  are  thinking  of  that  baby  now," 
she  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  You  really  look  as  if  you  were." 

"  Well,"  he  admitted,  "  the  fact  is  that's  just  what  I  was 
doing — thinking  of  her." 

"  Well,  and  what  were  you  thinking?  " 

"I  was  thinking — "  holding  his  spray  of  honeysuckle 
between  his  thumb  and  forefinger  and  looking  at  it  in  an 
interested  way,  "  I  was  thinking  about  what  name  I  should 
give  her." 

"  Oh!  "  she  said,  "  she  hasn't  any  name?  " 

"  No,"  Tom  answered,  without  removing  his  eyes  from 
his  honeysuckle,  "  she  hasn't  any  name  yet." 

"  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "  they  were  queer  people." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  which  she  spent  in  looking 
curiously  both  at  him  and  his  honeysuckle. 

"  What  was  her  mother's  name  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  sat  up  in  her  chair. 

"  You  don't  know!  " 

"  She  was  dying  when  I  saw  her  first,  and  I  never  thought 
of  asking." 

"But  her  father?" 

"  I  didn't  think  of  asking  that  either,  and  nobody  knew 
anything  of  them.  I  suppose  he  was  not  in  the  frame  of 
mind  to  think  of  such  things  himself.  It  was  all  over  and 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

done  with  so  soon.  He  went  away  as  soon  as  she  was 
buried." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  sank  back  into  her  chair. 

"  It's  the  strangest  story  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life,"  she 
commented,  with  a- sigh  of  amazement.  "The  man  must 
have  been  crazed  with  grief.  I  suppose  he  was  very  fond  of 
his  wife?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Tom. 

There  was  another  pause  of  a  few  moments,  and  from  the 
thoughts  with  which  they  occupied  it  Mrs.  Rutherford 
roused  herself  with  a  visible  effort. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  cheerily,  "  let  it  be  a  pretty  name." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Tom,  "  it  must  be  a  pretty  one." 

He  turned  the  bit  of  honeysuckle  so  that  the  moonlight 
fell  on  its  faintly  tinted  flower.  It  really  seemed  as  if  he 
felt  he  should  get  on  better  for  having  it  to  look  at  and 
refer  to. 

"  I  want  it  to  be  a  pretty  name,"  he  went  on,  "  and  I've 
thought  of  a  good  many  that  sounded  well  enough,  but 
none  of  them  seemed  exactly  to  hit  my  fancy  in  the  right 
way  until  I  thought  of  one  that  came  into  my  mind  a  few 
moments  ago  as  I  sat  here.  It  has  a  pleasant  meaning — I 
don't  know  that  there's  anything  in  that,  of  course;  but 
I've  got  a  sort  of  whim  about  it.  I  suppose  it's  a  whim. 
What  do  you  think — "  looking  very  hard  at  the  honey- 
suckle, "  of  Felicia?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  his  companion,  "  that  it  is  likely  to  be 
the  best  name  you  could  give  her,  for  if  she  isn't  a  happy 
creature  it  won't  be  your  fault." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  "  I've  set  out  to  do  my  best  and  I'd 
like  to  give  her  a  fair  start  in  every  way,  even  in  her  name, 
though  there  mayn't  be  anything  in  it,  but  I'd  like  to  do.it. 

75 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

I  suppose  it's  time  I  should  be  having  some  object  in  life. 
I've  never  had  one  before,  and  I've  been  a  useless  fellow. 
Well,  I've  got  one  now  by  chance,  and  I'm  bound  to  hold 
on  to  it  and  do  what  I  can.  I  want  her  to  have  what 
chances  I  can  give  her  on  her  side,  and  it  came  into  my 
mind  that  Felicia ' 

He  stopped  to  consult  the  honeysuckle,  as  it  were,  and 
Jenny  Rutherford  broke  in: 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  Felicia  is  the  name  for  her,  and  it's  a 
beautiful  thought " 

"  Oh! "  interrupted  Tom,  bestirring  himself  uneasily, 
"  it's  a  natural  thought.  She  needs  all  she  can  get  to  bal- 
ance the  trouble  she  began  life  with.  Most  other  little 
chaps  begin  it  in  a  livelier  way — in  a  way  that's  more  nat- 
ural, born  into  a  home,  and  all  that.  It's  a  desolate  busi- 
ness that  she  should  have  no  one  but  a  clumsy  fellow  like 
me  to  pick  her  up,  and  that  there  should  be  a  shadow  of — 
of  trouble  and  pain  and  death  over  her  from  the  first. 
Good  Lord!  "  with  a  sudden  movement  of  his  big  arm, 
"  let's  sweep  it  away  if  we  can." 

The  thought  so  stirred  him,  that  he  turned  quite  around 
as  he  sat. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  that's  what  I  was  aiming  at  when 
I  set  my  mind  on  having  her  things  frilled  up  and  orna- 
mented. I  want  them  to  be  what  they  might  have  been  il 
she  had  been  born  of  a  woman  who  was  happy  and  well 
cared  for  and — and  loved — as  if  she  had  been  thought  of 
and  looked  forward  to  and  provided  for  in  a — in  a  tender 
way — as  they  say  young  mothers  do  such  things:  you  know 
how  that  is;  I  don't,  perhaps,  I've  only  thought  of  it  some- 
times  "  his  voice  suddenly  dropping. 

But  he  had  thought  of  it  often,  in  his  lonely  back  room 

76 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

one  winter  a  few  years  ago,  when  it  had  drifted  to  him 
that  his  brother  De  Courcy  was  the  father  of  a  son. 

Mrs.  Eutherford  leaned  forward  in  her  seat,  tears  rose  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  put  her  hand  impulsively  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh!  "  she  cried,  "  you  are  a  good  man.  You're  a  good 
man,  and  if  she  lives,  she  will  tell  you  so  and  love  you  with 
all  her  heart.  I  will  see  to  the  little  clothes  just  as  if  they 
were  Nellie's  own  "  (Nellie  being  the  baby,  or  more  properly 
speaking,  the  last  baby,  as  there  were  others  in  the  house- 
hold). "  And  if  there  is  anything  I  can  ever  do  for  the 
little  thing,  let  me  do  it  for  her  poor  young  mother's  sake." 

Tom  thanked  her  gratefully. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  come  to  you  often  enough,  I  reckon," 
he  said.  "  I  guess  she'll  have  her  little  sick  spells,  as  they 
all  do,  and  it'll  help  wonderfully  to  have  someone  to  call 
on.  There's  her  teeth  now,"  anxiously,  "  they'll  be  coining 
through  in  a  few  months,  and  then  there'll  be  the  deuce  to 
pay." 

He  was  so  overweighted  by  this  reflection,  that  he  was 
silent  for  some  minutes  afterwards  and  was  only  roused  by 
a  question  requiring  a  reply. 

Later  the  Judge  came  in  and  engaged  him  in  political 
conversation,  all  the  Judge's  conversation  being  of  a  po- 
litical nature  and  generally  tending  to  vigorous  denuncia- 
tions of  some  candidate  for  election  who  belonged  to  the 
opposite  party.  In  Barnesville  political  feeling  ran  high, 
never  running  low,  even  when  there  was  no  one  to  be 
elected  or  defeated,  which  was  very  seldom  the  case,  for 
between  such  elections  and  defeat  there  was  always  what  had 
been  done  or  what  ought  tp  have  been  done  at  Washington 
to  discuss,  it  being  strongly  felt  that  without  the  assistance 

77 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

of  Barnesville,  Washington  would  be  in  a  sorry  plight  in- 
deed. 

To-day  the  Judge  had  been  engaged  in  a  livelier  dis- 
cussion than  usual  as  he  rode  homeward  with  a  select  party 
of  legal  brethren  from  court  at  Brownsboro,  and  conse- 
quently made  his  appearance  blustering  and  joyous.  He 
bestowed  upon  his  wife  a  sounding  kiss,  and,  with  one  arm 
around  her  waist,  shook  hands  with  Tom  in  a  gust  of  hos- 
pitality, speaking  to  both  at  once. 

"  Howdy,  Jenny?  Howdy,  Tom?  It's  a  coon's  age  since 
we've  seen  you,  Tom.  Time  you  showed  yourself.  How 
are  the  children,  Jenny — and  what's  Tom  Scott  been  do- 
ing? What's  this  we  hear  about  that  stray  young  one? 
Nice  tale  that  is  to  tell  on  a  fellow.  Fowler  heard  it  at 
Brownsboro  and  like  to  have  killed  himself.  Lord!  how 
hot  it's  been!  I'm  ready  for  supper,  Jenny.  Sit  down, 
Tom.  As  soon  as  I  get  through  supper,  we'll  have  a  real 
old-fashioned  talk.  I've  been  suffering  for  one  for  three 
months.  Jenny,  tell  Sophronia  to  spread  herself  on  her 
waffles,  for  I've  been  getting  some  mighty  poor  stuff  for  the 
last  few  days.  What  do  you  think  of  Thatcher  running  for 
the  Legislature?  Lord!  Lord!  what  a  fool  that  fellow  is! 
Most  unpopular  man  in  the  county,  and  about  the  meanest 
too.  Mean?  Lord!  mean  ain't  the  name  for  it!  He'll  be 
beat  so  that  any  other  man  wouldn't  want  to  show  his  head, 
and  it  won't  make  a  mark  on  him.  Nellie's  asleep,  ain't 
she,  Jenny?  I've  got  to  go  and  look  at  her  and  the  rest  of 
them.  Don't  you  want  to  come  along,  Tom?  You're  a  fam- 
ily man  yourself  now,  and  you  ought  to  take  an  interest!  " 

He  led  the  way  into  the  family-room  at  the  back  and,  tak- 
ing the  candle  frpin  the  high  mantel,  moved  it  trium- 
phwrtly  OYW  tb?  Ws  m  which  the  chil4?fu  slept, 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Here's  Tom  Scott!  "  he  announced.  "  Tom  Scott's  got 
to  have  a  crib  to  himself.  Look  at  him  now.  What  do  you 
think  of  that  for  a  boy?  He's  five  years  old  next  month, 
and  he  about  runs  Barnesville.  The  boys  round  here  are 
just  ruining  him  with  making  much  of  him  and  setting 
him  up  to  tricks.  He  just  lives  round  at  the  stores  and  the 
post-office.  And  what  Tom  Scott  don't  know  ain't  worth 
knowing.  Came  home  with  six  jack-knives  in  his  pockets 
the  first  day  Jenny  turned  him  out  in  pantaloons.  The 
boys  tried  themselves  to  see  who  could  do  best  by  him. 
You  could  hear  them  shouting  and  laughing  all  over  the 
town  at  the  things  they  got  him  to  say.  I  tell  you  he's  a 
case,  Tom  is.  Last  election  he  was  as  stirred  up  as  any  of 
us.  Hollered  '  'Kah  for  Collins '  until  he  was  hoarse  and 
his  mother  brought  him  home  and  gave  him  syrup  of  squills 
because  she  thought  he  had  the  croup.  What  do  you  think 
he  did,  now?  Went  into  Barton's  store  and  ordered  a 
bushel  of  chestnuts  to  be  sent  down  to  my  account  and 
brought  'em  out  and  set  on  the  horse-block  and  gave  a  treat 
for  Collins.  I  was  coming  up  home  and  saw  the  crowd  and 
heard  the  hollering  and  laughing,  and  there  was  Tom  in 
the  middle  baling  out  his  chestnuts  and  hollering  at  the  top 
of  his  voice:  '  Come  on,  boys,  all  you  Collins  men,  here's 
a  treat  for  Collins! '  I  thought  Collins  would  have  died 
when  he  heard  it.  He  laughed  until  he  choked,  and  the 
next  day  he  came  to  see  Tom  and  gave  him  a  gold  eagle 
and  a  colt.  He  says  he  is  going  to  give  him  a  little  nigger  to 
look  after  it,  and  he'll  do  it.  Oh,  Torn  Scott's  the  boy! 
He'll  be  in  the  White  House  forty  years  from  now.  He's 
making  a  bee-line  for  it  right  now." 

And  he  bent  aj^d  kissed  the  little  fellow^  sunburnt  F9sy 
cheek, 

79 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  His  mother  and  his  grandmother  can't  do  a  thing  with 
him,"  he  said,  rapturously,  "  and  it's  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  manage  him.  Oh,  he's  a  case,  is  Tom  Scott!  " 

And  with  this  tribute  to  his  character,  he  left  him  to  his 
slumbers,  with  his  sturdy  little  legs  occupying  an  extensive 
?rea  of  crib  and  his  face  resting  on  his  small  brown  arm. 

After  this,  the  Judge  went  to  his  supper  and  consumed 
a  large  quantity  of  fried  chicken,  waffles,  and  coffee,  after- 
wards joining  Tom  on  the  porch,  smoking  his  pipe  and 
stigmatising  Thatcher  in  a  loud  and  jovial  voice  as  the 
meanest  man  in  Hamlin. 

But  for  this  resonant  jovialness  of  voice,  his  denuncia- 
tin  of  the  Democratic  Party,  which  was  not  his  party, 
might  have  appeared  rather  startling. 

u  There  isn't  an  honest  man  among  them,5>  he  an- 
nounced. "  Not  a  durned  one!  They're  all  the  same.  Cut 
each  other's  throats  for  a  dime,  the  whole  caboodle.  Oh! 
damn  a  Democrat  anyhow,  Tom,  'tain't  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  they  should  be  anything  but  thieves  and  ras- 
cals. Just  look  at  the  whole  thing.  It's  founded  on  lies 
and  corruption  and  scoundrelism.  That's  their  founda- 
tion. They  start  out  on  it,  and  it  ain't  reasonable  to  ex- 
pect anything  better  of  them.  Good  Lord!  If  I  thought 
Tom  Scott  would  join  the  Democrats,  I  believe  I'd  blow  his 
brains  out  in  his  crib  this  minute." 

Tom's  part  in  this  discussion  was  that  of  a  large-minded 
and  strictly  impartial  listener.  This  was  the  position  he 
invariably  assumed  when  surrounded  by  political  argu- 
ment. He  was  not  a  politician.  His  comments  upon  po- 
litical subjects  being  usually  of  a  sarcastic  nature,  and 
likely  to  prove  embarrassing  to  both  parties. 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  reply  to  the  Judge's  outpourings, 

80 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"you're  right.  There  ain't  a  chance  for  them,  not  an 
eternal  chance.  You  can't  expect  it,  and  it  ain't  all  their 
fault  either.  Where  are  they  to  get  their  decent  men  from, 
unless  some  of  you  fellows  go  over?  Here  you  are  with- 
out a  liar  or  a  fool  among  you — not  a  durned  one — made 
a  clean  sweep  of  all  the  intellect  and  honesty  and  incor- 
ruptible worth  in  the  country  and  hold  on  to  it  too,  and 
then  let  out  on  these  fellows  because  there  isn't  any  left 
for  'em.  I'm  a  lazy  man  myself  and  not  much  on  argu- 
ment, but  I  must  say  that's  a  weak  place  in  your  logic. 
You  don't  give  'em  a  show  at  the  start — that's  their  mis- 
fortune." 

"  Oh,  go  to  thunder!  "  roared  the  Judge,  amiably.  "  You 
don't  know  the  first  thing  about  it  and  never  did.  That's 
where  you  fail — in  politics.  The  country  would  be  in  a 
mighty  poor  fix  if  we  had  many  fellows  like  you — in  a 
mighty  poor  fix.  You're  a  good  citizen,  Tom,  but  you  ain't 
a  politician." 

"  That's  so,"  said  Tom.  "  I  ain't  good  enough  for  your 
party  or  bad  enough  for  the  other,  when  a  man's  got  to  be 
either  a  seraphim  or  a  Democrat,  there  isn't  much  chance 
for  an  ordinary  fellow  to  spread  himself." 

Whereupon  the  Judge  in  an  altogether  friendly  manner 
consigned  him  to  thunder  again  and,  evidently  enjoying 
himself  immensely,  proceeded  to  the  most  frightful  de- 
nunciations of  Thatcher  and  his  party,  the  mere  list  of 
whose  crimes  and  mental  incapacities  should  have  con- 
demned them  to  perdition  and  the  lunatic  asylum  upon  the 
spot  without  further  delay. 

While  he  was  in  the  midst  of  this  genial  loud-voiced 
harangue,  his  wife,  who  had  been  in  the  back  room  with 
the  baby,  came  out  and,  on  seeing  her,  he  seemed  suddenly 

81 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

to  forget  his  animosities  and  the  depraved  political  condi- 
tion of  the  country  altogether,  becoming  a  placable,  easily 
pleased,  domesticated  creature  at  once. 

"  Got  Nellie  to  sleep  again,  have  you?  "  he  said,  putting 
his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  Well,  let's  go  in  and  have 
some  music.  Come  and  sing  (  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer.' 
That's  my  favourite;  it  beats  all  the  new-fangled  opera 
things  all  to  pieces." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  parlour,  which  was  a  large  square 
room,  regarded  by  Barnesville  as  the  most  sumptuous  of 
reception  chambers,  inasmuch  as  its  floor  was  covered  by  a 
Brussels  carpet  adorned  with  exotics  of  multifarious  col- 
ours, its  walls  ornamented  with  massively  framed  photo- 
graphs, and  its  corners  fitted  up  with  whatnots  and  shining 
hair-cloth  seats  known  in  Hamlin  County  as  "  tater-tates," 
and  in  that  impressive  character  admired  beyond  expres- 
sion. Its  crowning  glory,  however,  was  the  piano,  which 
had  belonged  to  Jenny  Rutherford  in  her  boarding-school 
days,  and  was  the  delight  of  the  Judge's  heart.  It  fur- 
nished him  with  his  most  cherished  recreation  in  his 
hours  of  repose  from  political  conflict  and  argument,  inas- 
much as  he  regarded  his  wife's  performance  seldom  to  be 
equalled  and  never  surpassed,  and  the  soft,  pleasant  voice 
with  which  she  sang  "  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  "  and 
other  simple  and  sentimental  melodies  as  that  of  a  can- 
tatrice  whose  renown  might  have  been  world-wide  if  she 
had  chosen  to  turn  her  attention  to  its  development. 

"  Lord!  "  he  said,  throwing  himself  into  one  of  the  shin- 
ing arm-chairs.  "  There's  nothing  like  music,  nothing  .un- 
der the  shining  sun.  (  Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the 
savage  breast.' '' 

This  in  his  most  sonorous  quotation  tones:   "  Let  a  man 

82 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

get  tired  or  out  of  sorts,  or  infernal  mad  at  a  pack  of 
cursed  fools,  and  music's  the  thing  that'll  set  him  straight 
every  time,  if  he's  any  sort  of  a  fellow.  A  man  that  ain't 
fond  of  music  ain't  of  any  account  on  God's  green  earth.  I 
wouldn't  trust  him  beyond  a  broom-straw.  There's  a  mean 
streak  in  a  man  that  don't  care  for  music,  sure.  Why,  the 
time  the  Democrats  elected  Peyton,  the  only  thing  that 
saved  me  from  bursting  a  blood-vessel  was  Jenny's  play- 
ing '  My  Lodging's  on  the  Cold  Ground '  with  variations. 
I  guess  she  played  it  for  two  hours  hand-running,  because 
when  I  found  it  was  sort  of  soothing  me,  I  didn't  want  her 
to  break  in  on  the  effect  by  beginning  another.  Play  it 
for  Tom,  Jenny,  after  you've  sung  awhile.  There's  one 
thing  I've  made  up  my  mind  to — if  I  had  fifty  girls,  I'd 
have  'em  all  learn  music  if  they  didn't  know  anything — not 
the  operatic  kind,  you  know,  but  enough  to  teach  them  to 
sing  to  a  man  like  Jenny  does.  Go  on,  Jenny." 

The  sustaining  and  cheering  effects  of  Sophronia's  fried 
chicken  and  waffles  probably  added  to  his  comfortable  en- 
joyment, which  was  without  limit.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
arm-chair  as  far  as  the  stiffly  ornamented  back  would  admit 
of  his  so  doing  and  kept  time  with  his  head  or  his  feet,  oc- 
casionally joining  in  on  a  chorus  with  startling  suddenness 
in  an  evidently  subdued  roar,  which,  though  subdued,  was 
still  roaring  enough,  and,  despite  the  excellence  of  its  in- 
tention, quite  out  of  tune  enough  to  cause  the  wax  flowers 
in  their  wax  basket  on  the  table  (both  done  by  Jenny  at 
boarding-school)  to  shake  under  the  glass  shade  until  they 
tapped  against  its  side  with  a  delicate  tinkle. 

It  was  while  this  was  going  on  that  Tom,  sitting  near  a 
side  table,  picked  up  a  book  and  almost  unconsciously 
opened  it  and  read  its  title.  Having  read  its  title,  an  ex- 

83* 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

pression  of  interest  showed  itself  on  his  countenance  and 
he  turned  over  a  leaf. or  so,  and  as  he  turned  them  over 
dipped  into  them  here  and  there. 

He  had  the  book  in  his  hand  when  Jenny  Rutherford 
ended  her  last  chorus  and  came  towards  him. 

"  Do  you  go  much  by  this?  "  he  asked. 

She  took  it  from  him  and  glanced  at  it. 

"I  brought  Tom  Scott  up  on  it,"  she  said.  "Mother 
wasn't  with  me  then,  and  I  was  such  a  child  I  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  him." 

"  Seems  to  be  a  good  sort  of  book,"  said  Tom,  and  he 
turned  over  the  leaves  again. 

"  It  is,"  she  answered,  smiling  at  him.  "  There  are  lots 
of  things  in  it  every  doctor  don't  know.  It  was  written  by 
a  woman." 

"  That's  the  reason,  I  reckon,"  said  Tom. 

He  laid  the  book  down  and  seemed  to  forget  it,  but  about 
an  hour  after  when  his  bedroom  candle  was  brought  and 
he  was  on  the  point  of  retiring  for  the  night,  he  turned 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  sitting-room  and  spoke  to  hi? 
hostess  in  the  tone  of  one  suddenly  recollecting  himself. 

"Where  did  you  say  you  got  that  book?"  he  inquired, 
snuffing  his  candle  with  his  thumb  and  forefinger. 

"  I  didn't  say  at  all,"  answered  Jenny.  "  I  got  it  from 
Brough  &  Bros.,  Baltimore." 

"  Oh,  there!  "  he  remarked.    "  Good-night." 

When  he  reached  his  room  and  shut  himself  in,  he  set 
his  candlestick  on  a  table  and  proceeded  to  draw  from  his 
pocket  the  memorandum-book,  also  producing  the  stump  of 
a  lead  pencil. 

Then  he  made  as  he  stood  up  before  the  looking-glass 
and  in  the  flickering  light  of  the  candle,  an  entry  which  was 

84 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

as  follows:  "Advice  to  Young  Mothers,  Brough  &  Bros." 
He  made  it  with  a  grave  countenance  and  a  business-like 
manner,  and  somehow,  owing  it  may  be  to  the  small  size  of 
the  room,  its  low  ceilings  and  many  shadows,  or  the  flicker- 
ing of  the  candle,  his  colossal  height  and  breadth  of  body 
and  tremendous  look  of  strength  had  never  seemed  so 
marked  nor  appeared  so  to  overpower  the  objects  surround- 
ing him. 

Having  completed  the  entry,  he  shut  up  the  book  and  re- 
turned it  to  his  pocket  with  a  relieved  air. 

"  If  a  man  ain't  a  young  mother,"  he  remarked,  "  I  guess 
he  can  get  the  good  of  it,  if  he  gives  himself  time.  And 
what  she  wants  " — rather  hurriedly — "  is  to  get  as  good 
a  start  as  if  she  had  a  young  mother." 

And  he  sat  down  and  pulled  off  his  right  boot  in  so  ab- 
sorbed a  frame  of  mind,  that  he  aroused  presently  with  a 
start  to  find  that  he  was  holding  it  as  if  it  had  been  made 
of  much  less  tough  material  and  required  handling  ten- 
derly. 


85 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HE  was  on  his  way  homeward  early  the  next  morning, 
and  by  noon  his  horse  had  climbed  the  rising  ground  from 
which  he  could  look  down  on  the  Cross-roads  and  the  post- 
office  baking  itself  brown  in  the  sun.  Catching  sight  of  the 
latter  edifice,  he  smiled  a  little  and  shook  the  bridle  against 
his  steed's  warm  neck. 

"  Get  along,  Jake,"  he  said.  "I'm  in  a  little  more  of  a 
hurry  to  get  home  than  usual — seems  that  way  anyhow." 

The  eagerness  he  felt  was  a  new  experience  with  him  and 
stirred  his  sense  of  humour  even  while  it  warmed  his  al- 
ways easily  moved  heart.  It  had  been  his  wont  during  the 
last  eight  years  to  return  from  any  absence  readily  but 
never  eagerly  or  with  any  touch  of  excited  pleasure.  Even 
at  their  brightest  aspect,  with  the  added  glow  of  fire  and 
warmth  and  good  cheer,  and  contrast  to  winter's  cold  and 
appetite  sharpened  by  it,  the  back  rooms  had  always  suf- 
fered from  the  disadvantage  of  offering  no  prospect  of 
companionship  or  human  interest  to  him.  After  the  supper 
had  been  disposed  of  and  the  newspapers  read  and  the  pipe 
smoked,  there  had  only  been  the  fire  to  watch,  and  it  was 
quite  natural  to  brood  as  its  blaze  died  down  and  its  logs 
changed  to  a  bed  of  glowing  cinders.  Under  such  cir- 
cumstances it  was  easy  to  fall  into  a  habit  of  brooding  too 
much  and  thinking  of  things  which  had  better  been  for- 
gotten. When  there  was  no  fire,  it  had  been  lonelier  still, 
f  Quad  tb§  tij&e  hang  heavily  o»  Jug 
83 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  But  now/'  he  said,  shaking  his  bridle  again,  "  there 
she  is,  and  it's  quite  queer,  by  thunder,  how  much  she 
seems  to  give  a  man  to  think  of  and  what  will  it  be  when 
she  begins  to  talk."  And  his  smile  ended  in  a  jovial  laugh 
which  rather  startled  Jake,  who  was  not  expecting  it,  and 
caused  hirn  to  shy  promptly. 

She  was  not  asleep  when  he  entered  her  presence,  which 
was  so  unusual  a  state  of  affairs  that  he  found  it  a  little 
alarming. 

"Hello!"  he  exclaimed,  "there's  nothing  wrong,  I 
hope." 

"Wid  dat  chile?"  chuckled  Mornin,  delightedly.  "I 
sh'd  think  not,  Mars'  D'Willerby!  Dat  ar  chile's  a-thrivin' 
an'  a-comin'  'long  jes'  like  she'd  orter.  Dar  ain't  a-gwine 
to  be  nothin'  wrong  wid  dat  chile." 

"  That's  a  good  thing,"  said  Tom. 

He  sat  down  by  the  cradle's  side  and  regarded  its  occu- 
pant with  an  interest  as  fresh  as  if  she  had  just  appeared 
for  the  first  time  upon  his  horizon.  She  had  been  imbib- 
ing a  large  quantity  of  milk,  and  the  effect  of  this  nourish- 
ment had  been  to  at  once  compose  her  spirits  and  slightly 
enliven  them.  So  she  employed  the  passing  moments  by 
looking  at  Tom  with  steadfast  and  solemn  eyes — not,  per- 
haps, very  intelligently,  but  still  with  a  vacant  air  of  in- 
terest in  him  in  his  character  of  an  object. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  she's  grown;  she's  grown  in  thirty- 
six  hours,  and  she's  improved  too.  Oh,  yes!  she's  coming 
along  nicely." 

He  touched  her  very  carefully  with  his  large  forefinger, 
a  liberty  which  she  did  not  resent  or  even  notice,  unless  the 
fact  that  she  winked  both  eyes  might  be  regarded  as  a  token 
of  recognition. 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  We'll  have  a  box  full -of  things  here  for  her  in  a  couple 
of  weeks,"  he  said.  "  And  then  she  can  start  out  in  life — 
start  out  in  life." 

The  last  four  words  seemed  to  please  him;  as  he  repeated 
them  he  touched  her  cheek  again,  carefully  as  before. 

"  And  start  out  fair,  too!  "  he  added.  "  Fair  and  square 
— as  fair  and  square  as  any  of  them." 

He  remained  a  little  longer  in  his  seat  by  the  cradle, 
talking  to  Mornin,  asking  her  questions  and  delivering  mes- 
sages laden  with  advice  from  little  Mrs.  Rutherford,  which 
instructions  Aunt  Mornin  plainly  regarded  as  superfluous. 

"  Now,  Mars'  D'Willerby,"  she  giggled  in  amiable  scorn, 
"  didn't  I  raise  fo'  o'  my  young  Mistes's?  Mornin  ain't  no 
spring  chicken.  Dar  ain't  nuffin  'bout  chillun  Mornin 
h'aint  heerd.  Leeve  dis  yere  chile  to  Mornin." 

"  She  ain't  going  to  be  left  to  anyone,"  said  Tom,  cheer- 
fully, "  not  to  the  best  woman  in  Hamlin  County.  We've 
got  to  make  up  to  her  for  two  or  three  things,  and  we're 
going  to  do  it." 

Having  relieved  himself  of  which  sentiment,  he  went  to 
his  place  at  the  table  and  ate  a  mighty  dinner,  during  his 
enjoyment  of  which  meal  he  did  not  lose  interest  in  his 
small  silent  partner  at  all,  but  cast  proud  glances  and 
jocular  sallies  at  her  every  few  mouthfuls,  partaking  of  her, 
as  it  were,  with  his  mountain  trout,  and  finding  her  add 
flavour  and  zest  to  his  hot  corn-bread  and  fried  ham. 

When  he  had  ended  his  repast  with  an  astonishing 
draught  of  buttermilk,  and  was  ready  to  go  into  the  store, 
she  had  dozed  off  cosily  again  and  was  making  the  best  of 
her  opportunities,  so  he  only  paused  for  a  moment  to  give 
her  a  farewell  glance. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  Felicia — that'll  do.  When  you  come 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

to  the  meaning  of  it,  I  don't  know  of  anything  else  that'd 
seem  to  start  her  out  as  fair — Felicia!  " 

And  though  he  said  the  word  in  a  whisper  it  seemed  to 
reach  her  ear  in  some  mysterious  way,  for  she  stirred 
slightly,  though  not  as  through  any  sense  of  disturbance, 
opened  her  eyes  upon  his  big  figure  and,  closing  them  the 
next  instant,  sank  into  soft  sleep  again  with  the  faintest 
dawn  or  ghost  of  a  baby  smile  upon  her  face. 

So,  nestling  under  the  patchwork  quilt  and  sleeping  the 
hours  away  in  the  small  ark  stranded  in  the  chimney  cor- 
ner, she  began  life. 


Felicia  was  received  by  Talbot's  Cross-roads  with  some 
difference  of  opinion. 

"  Fd  rather  had  Mirandy  or  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Doty. 
"Flishyer  ain't  nigh  as  showy  as  a  heap  o'  other  names, 
?n'  like  as  not,  folks  '11  be  callin'  her  F'lish.  Now  thar's 
Vangerline  'n'  Clementine  'n'  Everlyne  that'd  ha'  bin 
showier  then  Fli  shyer." 

"  Tom/'  put  in  Mr.  Doty,  with  his  usual  enjo}rment  of 
his  friend's  weakness  and  strength,  "  Tom  he'd  a  notion 
'bout  it.  He  said  it  meant  som'n  'bout  her  a'bein'  happy, 
'n'  he  'lowed  it'd  kinder  give  her  a  start  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. It's  jes'  like  Tom.  He's  full  o'  notions  when  he  gits 
started.  I'll  back  him  agin  any  man  in  Hamlin  fur  notions 
when  he  gits  started.  Lord!  it's  jes'  Tom  all  over!  " 

Through  a  disposition  to  take  even  names  easily  and 
avoid  in  all  cases  any  unnecessary  exertion,  Mrs.  Doty's 
pronunciation  was  adopted  at  once,  which  was  perhaps  the 
principal  reason  for  a  fanciful  change  being  made  not  long 
afterwards. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Against  "  F'lishyer  "  Tom  rebelled  loudly  and  without 
ceasing,  but  without  effect. 

The  fanciful  change  came  about  and  was  adopted  in  this 
wise.  In  the  course  of  a  couple  of  weeks  the  box  of  little 
garments  arrived  from  Barnesville,  accompanied  by  a 
warm-hearted  note  from  Jenny  Rutherford. 

The  unpacking  of  the  box — which  was  not  a  large  one, 
though  it  seemed  to  contain  an  astonishing  number  of 
things,  most  of  them  of  great  length  and  elaborateness — 
was  to  Tom  a  singularly  exciting  event,  so  exciting  that  he 
found  himself  wondering  and  not  at  all  sure  that  he  under- 
stood it. 

When  he  opened  the  box — Mornin  standing  at  his  side, 
her  charge  in  her  arms — he  did  it  with  tremulous  fingers, 
and  when,  having  laid  one  article  after  another  in  a  snowy 
drift  upon  the  bed,  he  drew  back  to  look  at  them,  he  found 
it  necessary  after  a  few  moments'  inspection  to  turn  about 
and  pace  the  floor,  not  uneasily,  but  to  work  off  steam  as 
it  were,  while  Mornin  uttered  her  ejaculations  of  rapture. 

"  I  never  seen  nuthin'  like  'em  afore,  Mars'  D'Willerby," 
she  said  with  many  excitable  giggles.  "  Dis  yer  chile's 
a-gwine  to  take  the  flo'  shore  as  yo'  bawn!  Sich  a  settin' 
out  as  dat  is!  She'll  git  ter  puttin'  on  airs  afore  she's  a 
year  ole.  We'll  hev  ter  give  her  a  settin'  down  wunce  'n  a 
while  to  keep  her  straight.  Mis'  Rutherford,  she  wus  boun' 
to  do  it  up  in  style,  she  wus  !  " 

Tom  took  one  hand  out  of  his  pocket  and  ruffled  his  hair 
with  it,  and  then  put  it  back  again. 

"  Your  young  mistresses  now,"  he  suggested,  "  I  suppose 
they  are  about  such  things  as  their  mothers  made  for 
them." 

"Lordy,  dey's  a  heap  finer,  Mars'  D'Willerby — a  heap 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

finer!  Dey  wus  rich  folks'  chillun,  but  dey  never  hed  sich. 
a  settin'  out  as  dis  yere — not  one  on  'em." 

"  They  didn't  ?  "  said  Tom,  with  secretly  repressed  exul- 
tation. "  Well,  if  they  didn't,  I  guess  she'll  do.  They  are 
rather  nice,  I  reckon — and  I  meant  they  should  be.  Say, 
Mornin,  suppose  you  dress  her  up  and  let  me  show  her  to 
the  boys." 

He  himself  picked  out  the  sumptuous  long-skirted  gar- 
ments she  was  to  wear  and  watched  with  the  deepest  inter- 
est the  rather  slow  process  of  her  attiring.  He  was  par- 
ticularly pleased  with  a  wonderfully  embroidered  white 
cloak  and  lace  cap,  which  latter  article  he  abstractedly  tied 
on  his  great  fist  and  found  much  too  small  for  it.  His  tri- 
umph, when  she  was  given  to  his  arms,  he  did  not  attempt 
to  conceal,  but  carried  her  into  the  store  with  the  manner 
of  a  large  victor  bearing  his  spoils. 

"  Now  look  here,  boys,"  he  announced,  Ldng  greeted 
with  the  usual  laughter  and  jocular  remarks.  "  This  ain't 
the  style  of  thing  we  want.  Hand  a  man  a  chair." 

His  customary  support  being  produced,  he  seated  him- 
self in  it,  keeping  his  charge  balanced  with  a  dexterity  and 
ease  quite  wonderful  to  behold. 

"  What  we  want,"  he  proceeded,  "  is  a  more  respectful 
tone.  Something  in  the  elaborate  chivalric  style,  and  we're 
going  to  have  it.  What  we  want  is  to  come  into  this  es- 
tablishment feeling  that  there's  no  risk' of  our  being  scared 
or  upset  by  any  durned  fool  startling  us  and  setting  our 
delicate  machinery  wrong.  We've  come  here  to  stay,  and 
we  expect  to  be  more  familiar  with  things  as  we  grow 
older,  and  the  thing  for  us  is  to  start  out  right  without  any 
disagreeable  impressions.  We  don't  want  to  say  when  we're 
brought  in  here — *  Why,  here's  the  place  where  that  fool 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

gave  me  such  a  start  last  week.  I  wonder  if  he's  here 
again? '  What  we  want  is  to  feel  that  here's  a  place  that's 
home,  and  a  place  that  a  person's  likely  to  look  forward 
to  coming  to  with  the  view  to  ah — I  should  say  to  a  high 
old  time  of  an  agreeable  description." 

"  She's  a-goin'  to  be  a  doggoned  purty  critter,"  said  a 
lounger  who  sat  on  a  barrel  near  by. 

"  She  ain't  nuthin'  like  her  mother/'  said  another; 
"  though  she  wus  a  purty  critter  when  I  seed  her." 

He  had  only  seen  her  in  her  coffin. 

"She  ain't  like  her  father,"  put  in  another. 

Tom  moved  in  his  chair  uneasily. 

"  She  won't  be  like  either  of  them,"  he  said.    "  Let  that 

go-" 

There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  which  more  than  one  among 
them  had  now  and  again  noticed  with  some  slow  bewilder- 
ment during  the  last  few  weeks — a  tone  new  to  them,  but 
which  in  time  they  grew  used  to,  though  they  never  under- 
stood its  meaning. 

"  Kinder,"  they  used  to  say,  "  as  ef  he  wus  mad  or — 
ruffed  up,  though  it  warn't  that  exactly,  either." 

"Black  eyes,  h'ain't  she?"  inquired  the  man  on  the 
barrel. 

"  Yes." 

"An  har.  That's  my  kind  er  women,  black  eyes  an' 
har,  and  kinder  spirity.  They've  more  devil  to  'em  V  is 
better  able  to  take  care  of  'emselves." 

"  She's  got  some  one  to  take  care  of  her,"  answered  Tom. 
"  That's  my  business." 

"  You've  got  her  mightily  fixed  up,  Tom,"  remarked  Mr. 
Doty,  who  had  just  entered.  "  You'll  hev  all  the  women 
in  the  country  flocking  up.  She  sorter  makes  me  think  Q' 
the  Queen  o'  Sheby.  Sheby,  she  wus  great  on  fixin'," 

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In   Connection  with  N 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Every  man  who  entered,  seeing  her  as  she  lay  in  state 
in  Tom's  lap,  was  drawn  towards  her  to  stand  and  wonder 
at  her  vaguely.  There  developed  a  tendency  to  form  small 
and  rather  silent  groups  about  her.  Infancy  was  no  novelty 
in  this  region  of  numerous  progenies,  but  the  fine  softness 
of  raiment  and  delicate  sumptuousness  of  infancy  were. 
More  than  one  man,  having  looked  at  her  and  wandered 
away,  was  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  to  wander  back 
again  and  finally  to  settle  in  some  seat  or  box  upon  a  barrel, 
that  he  might  the  better  indulge  his  curiosity  and  interest. 

"  Ye  must  hev  spent  a  heap  on  her,  Tom,"  was  said 
respectfully  again  and  again. 

The  fact  that  "  a  heap  had  been  spent  on  her  "  inspired 
the  audience  with  a  sense  of  her  importance,  which 
amounted  to  reverence.  That  she  represented  an  appar- 
ently unaccountable  expenditure,  was  considered  to  reflect 
credit  upon  her,  however  vaguely,  and  to  give  her  a  value 
not  to  be  lightly  regarded.  To  Mr.  Doty  the  idea  of  the 
"  Queen  of  Sheby  "  appeared  to  recur  persistently,  all  his 
imaginings  of  the  poetic,  the  dramatic,  and  luxurious  be- 
ing drawn  from  Scriptural  sources. 

"  I  can't  think  o'  nuthin'  else  but  Sheby  when  I  look  at 
her,"  he  remarked  several  times.  "  She  'minds  me  more 
o'  Sheby  then  anything  else  'n  Scripter.  Minty'll  jest  hev 
to  come  ter  see  her." 

This  boldness  of  imagery  struck  a  chord  in  the  breast  of 
his  hearers  which  responded  at  once.  It  was  discovered 
that  more  than  one  of  them  had  been  reminded  in  some 
indefinite  manner  of  the  same  distinguished  personage. 

"  When  she  was  consider'ble  younger  then  in  Solomon's 
time,"  said  one  gentleman  with  much  solemnity. 

Tom  himself  was  caught  by  the  fancy  and  when  his 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

charge  was  referred  to.  occasionally  in  a  most  friendly  spirit 
as  "  Sheby  thar,"  he  made  no  protest  against  it. 

"  It's  a  thunderation  sight  better  than  'Flishyer,'  "  he 
said,  "  and  if  it  comes  easier  to  you  fellows,  I've  no  objec- 
tion. Sheba  ain't  bad.  There's  a  kind  of  swing  to  it,  and 
you  can't  get  it  very  far  wrong.  The  other's  a  good  name 
spoiled,  and  it's  a  name  I've  a  fancy  for  saving  for  her.  I 
gave  it  to  her — I'll  save  it  for  her,  and  it  shall  be  a  thing 
between  us  two.  Call  her  Sheba  if  you  like." 

So  it  fell  out  that  Mr.  Doty's  Oriental  imaginings  sealed 
her  fate  and  gradually,  by  a  natural  process,  Felicia  was 
abandoned  for  Sheba,  even  Tom  using  it  upon  all  ordinary 
occasions. 

Having  in  this  manner  begun  life,  a  day  rarely  passed 
in  which  she  did  not  spend  an  hour  or  so  in  the  post-office. 
Each  afternoon  during  the  first  few  months  of  her  existence 
Tom  brought  heT  forth  attired  in  all  her  broidery,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  the  day  came  when  he  began  to  cherish 
the  fancy  that  she  knew  when  the  time  for  her  visit  was 
near,  and  enjoyed  it  when  it  came. 

"  She  looks  as  if  she  did,"  he  said  to  Mornin.  "  She 
wouldn't  go  to  sleep  yesterday  after  I  came  into  the  room, 
and  I'll  swear  I  saw  her  eyes  following  me  as  I  walked 
about;  and  when  I  carried  her  in  after  she  was  dressed,  she 
turned  her  head  over  her  shoulder  to  look  round  her  and 
smiled  when  she  had  done  it  and  found  nothing  was  miss- 
ing. Oh!  she  knows  well  enough  when  she  gets  in  there." 

The  fancy  was  a  wonderfully  pleasant  one  to  him,  and 
when,  as  time  went  on,  she  developed  a  bright  baby  habit 
of  noticing  all  about  her,  and  expressing  her  pleasure  in 
divers  soft  little  sounds,  he  was  a  happier  man  than  he  had 
ever  thought  to  be.  His  greatest  pleasure  was  the  certain 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

knowledge  that  she  had  first  noticed  himself — that  her  first 
greeting  had  been  given  to  him,  that  her  first  conscious 
caress  had  been  his.  She  was  a  loving  little  creature,  show- 
ing her  affection  earlier  than  most  children  do.  Before 
she  could  sit  upright,  she  recognised  his  in-comings  and 
out-goings,  and  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms  to  walk  to 
and  fro  with  her,  as  was  his  habit  at  night,  she  dropped 
her  tiny  head  upon  his  shoulders  with  a  soft  yielding  to 
his  tenderness  which  never  failed  to  quicken  the  beatings 
of  his  heart. 

"  There's  something  in  her  face,"  he  used  to  say  to  him- 
self, "  something  that's  not  in  every  child's  face.  It's  a 
look  about  her  eyes  and  mouth  that  seems  to  tell  a  man  that 
she  understands  him — whether  his  spirits  are  up  or  down." 

But  his  spirits  were  not  often  down  in  those  days.  The 
rooms  at  the  back  no  longer  wore  an  air  of  loneliness,  and 
the  evenings  never  hung  heavily  on  his  hands.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  months  he  sent  to  Brownsboro  for  a  high 
chair  and  tried  the  experiment  of  propping  his  small  com- 
panion up  in  it. at  his  side  when  he  ate  his  supper.  It  was 
an  experiment  which  succeeded  very  well  and  filled  him 
with  triumph.  From  her  place  in  the  kitchen  Mornin 
could  hear  during  every  meal  the  sound  of  conversation 
of  the  most  animated  description.  Tom's  big,  kind  voice 
rambling  cheerily  and  replied  to  by  the  soft  and  unformed 
murmuring  of  the  child.  He  was  never  tired  of  her,  never 
willing  to  give  her  up. 

"  What  I  might  have  given  to  others  if  they'd  cared  for 
it,"  was  his  thought,  "  I  give  to  her  and  she  knows  it." 

It  seemed  too  that  she  did  know  "it,  that  from  her  first 
gleaming  of  consciousness  she  had  turned  to  him  as  her 
friend,  her  protector,  and  her  best  beloved.  When  she 

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In  Connection  with 

The  DC  Willoughby  Claim 

heard  his  footsteps,  she  turned  in  Mornin's  arms,  or  in  her 
cradle,  to  look  for  him,  and  when  she  saw  his  face  her  whole 
little  body  yearned  towards  him. 

One  afternoon  when  she  was  ahout  eight  months  old,  he 
left  her  at  the  usual  time.  Mornin,  who  was  working,  had 
spread  a  big  red  shawl  upon  the  floor  and  seated  her  upon 
it,  and  when  Tom  went  out  of  the  room,  she  sat  still  play- 
ing in  the  quiet  way  peculiar  to  her,  with  the  gay  fringe. 
She  gave  him  a  long  earnest  look  as  he  crossed  the  thresh- 
old, a  look  which  he  remembered  afterwards  as  having  been 
more  thoughtful  than  usual  and  which  must  have  repre- 
sented a  large  amount  of  serious  speculation  mingled  with 
desire. 

Tom  went  into  the  store,  and  proceeded  to  the  perform- 
ance of  his  usual  duty  of  entertaining  his  customers.  He 
was  in  a  jovial  mood,  and,  having  a  larger  number  of  vis- 
itors than  ordinarily,  was  kept  actively  employed  in  set- 
tling the  political  problems  of  the  day  and  disposing  of  all 
public  difficulties. 

"What's  most  wanted  at  the  head  of  things,"  he  pro- 
claimed, "  is  a  man  that's  capable  of  exerting  himself  (Mis' 
Doty,  if  you  choose  that  calico,  Job  can  cut  it  off  for  you!) 
a  man  who  ain't  afraid  of  work.  (Help  yourself,  Jim!) 
Lord!  where'd  this  post-office  be  if  some  men  had  to  en- 
gineer it — a  man  who  would  stand  at  things  and  loaf  in- 
stead of  taking  right  hold.  (For  Heaven's  sake,  Bill,  don't 
hurry!  Jake'll  give  you  the  tea  as  soon  as  he's  cut  off  his 
wife's  dress!)  That's  the  kind  of  men  we  want  in  office 
now — in  every  kind  of  office — in  every  kind  of  office.  If 
there's  one  thing  I've  no  use  for  on  God's  green  earth,  it's 
a  man  with  no  energy.  (Nicholson,  just  kick  that  box 
over  here  so  I  can  get  my  feet  on  it!)" 


In  Connection  with  , 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

He  was  sitting  near  the  door  which  connected  the  back 
part  of  the  establishment  with  the  front,  and  it  was  just 
at  this  juncture  that  there  fell  upon  his  ear  a  familiar  sound 
as  of  something  being  dragged  over  the  floor.  The  next 
moment  he  felt  his  foot  touched  and  then  pressed  upon  by 
some  soft  unsteady  weight. 

He  looked  down  with  a  start  and  saw  first  a  small  round 
face  upturned,  its  dark  eyes  tired  but  rejoicing  and  faith- 
ful, and  then  a  short  white  dress  much  soiled  and  dusted 
by  being  dragged  over  the  bare  boards  of  the  two  store- 
rooms. 

His  heart  gave  a  leap  and  all  the  laughter  died  out  of 
his  face. 

"  My  God,  boys!  "  he  said,  as  he  bent  down,  "  she's  fol- 
lowed me!  She's  followed  me!  " 

It  was  quite  true.  She  had  never  crawled  far  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  shawl  before,  but  this  morning  her  longing 
had  given  her  courage  and  strength,  and  she  had  set  out 
upon  her  journey  in  search  of  him. 

Those  about  him  burst  into  loud,  admiring  laughter,  but 
Tom  did  not  laugh  at  all.  He  lifted  the  child  to  his  knee 
and  held  her  encircled  by  one  arm.  She  was  weary  with 
her  exertion  and  settled  at  once  into  an  easy  sitting  posture, 
her  head  resting  against  him  while  she  gazed  quietly  from 
under  her  upcurled  lashes  at  the  faces  grouped  about  her. 
Their  laughter  did  not  disturb  her  now  that  she  had 
reached  her  haven  of  safety. 

"  To  think  of  her  a-followin'  him!  "  said  Mis'  Doty,  "  V 
her  never  sot  off  nowhars  afore.  The  purty  little  critter! 
Lord!  Tom,  she's  a-gwine  ter  be  a  sight  when  she's  grown 
— with  them  eyes  and  har!  An'  ter  think  of  her  a-slippin' 
off  from  Mornin  an'  makin'  up  her  little  mind  to  follow  ye. 

07 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

I've  never  had  a  young  'un  to  try  it  that  early  in  all  I've 
raised." 

"  Lordy! "  said  Mr.  Doty,  "  she's  as  sot  on  Tom  's  he's 
on  her,  'n'  ef  ever  a  man  wus  a  doggoned  fool  about  a  young 
'un,  he  is  about  that'n;  'n'  fur  bein'  a  doggoned  fool " — 
triumphantly — "  when  he  sets  out  ter  be,  I'll  back  Tom 
agin  any  man  in  Hamlin." 

Tom  said  but  little.  He  made  no  more  jokes.  He  kept 
the  child  with  him  through  the  rest  of  the  day,  holding 
her  upon  his  knee  or  carrying  her  out  upon  the  -porch. 

When  at  supper-time  he  carried  her  back  to  the  room, 
she  was  asleep  and  he  laid  her  in  her  cradle  himself.  He 
moved  about  very  quietly  afterwards  and  ate  his  supper 
alone  with  frequent  glances  at  the  sleeper. 

"  Don't  take  her  away,"  he  said  to  Mornin  when  she 
came  in;  "  leave  her  here." 

"  'N'  hev  her  a-wakin'  'n'  disturbin'  uv  ye,  Mars'  Tom!  " 
she  responded. 

"  Leave  her  here,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  the  head 
of  the  cradle.  "  She'll  not  disturb  me.  We  shall  get  along 
finely  together." 

She  was  left,  Mornin  taking  her  departure  with  manifest 
disbelief  in  the  practicability  of  the  plan.  And  then,  hav- 
ing drawn  the  cradle  to  his  bedside,  Tom  put  out  the  light 
and  retired  himself. 

But  he  did  not  sleep  for  some  time;  having  flung  his 
mighty  body  upon  the  couch,  he  lay  with  his  arms  thrown 
above  his  head  gazing  at  the  darkness  and  listening  to  the 
soft  breathing  at  his  side.  He  was  thinking  over  the  one 
event  of  the  day. 

What  might  have  seemed  a  slight  thing  to  many  men 
had  struck  deep  into  his  great  heart. 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"My  God! "  he  said,  a  touch  of  reverential  tone  in  his 
whisper,  "  to  think  of  her  following  me!  " 

And  he  stretched  out  his  hand  in  the  darkness  and  laid 
it  upon  the  side  of  the  cradle  lightly,  and  afterwards  fell 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JUST  at  this  time,  which  was  the  y^ar  before  the  Civil 
War;  that  fashionahle  summer  resort,  the  White  Briar 
Springs,  was  at  its  gayest.  Rarely  before  had  the  hotel 
been  filled  with  so  brilliant  a  company.  A  few  extra  cases 
of  yellow  fever  had  been  the  cause  of  an  unusual  exodus 
from  the  fever  districts>  and  in.  consequence  the  various 
summer  resorts  flourished  and  grew  strong.  The  "  White 
Briar"  especially  exerted  and  arrayed  itself  in  its  most 
festive  garments.  The  great  dining-room  was  filled  to 
overflowing,  the  waiters  were  driven  to  desperation  by  the 
demands  made  upon  them  as  they  flew  from  table  to  table 
and  endeavoured  with  laudable  zeal  to  commit  to  memory 
fifty  orders  at  once  and  at  the  same  time  to  answer 
"  Comin',  sah  "  to  the  same  number  of  snapped  fingers. 
There  were  belles  from  Louisiana,  beauties  from  Missis- 
sippi, and  enslavers  from  Virginia,  accompanied  by  their 
mothers,  their  fathers,  their  troops  of  younger  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  their  black  servants.  There  were  nurses 
and  valets  and  maids  of  all  shades  from  ebony  to  cream- 
colour,  and  of  all  varieties  of  picturesqueness.  All  day 
the  immense  piazzas  were  crowded  with  promenaders, 
sitters,  talkers,  fancy-workers,  servants  attired  in  rainbow 
hues  and  apparently  enjoying  their  idleness  or  their  pre- 
tence at  work  to  the  utmost.  Every  morning  parties 
played  ten-pins,  rode,  strolled,  gossipped ;  every  afternoon 
the  daring  few  who  did  not  doze  away  the  heated  hours  in 
the  shaded  rooms,  flirted  in  couples  under  trees  on  the 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

lawn,  or  in  the  woods,  or  by  the  creek.  Every  evening 
there  was  to  be  found  ardent  youth  to  dance  in  the  ball- 
room, and  twice  a  week  at  least  did  this  same  youth, 
arrayed  in  robes  suited  to  honour  the  occasion,  disport 
itself  joyfully  and  with  transcendent  delight  in  the  pres- 
ence of  its  elders  assembled  in  rooms  around  the  walls  of 
the  same  glittering  apartment  with  the  intention  of 
bestowing  distinction  upon  what  was  known  as  "  the 
hop/' 

Sometimes,  in  dull  seasons,  there  was  a  scarcity  of 
partners  upon  such  occasions ;  but  this  year  such  was  not 
the  case.  Aside  from  the  brothers  of  the  belles  and  beau- 
ties before  referred  to,  who  mustered  in  full  force,  there 
was  a  reserved  corps  of  cavaliers  who,  though  past  the 
early  and  crude  bloom  of  their  first  youth,  were  still  mal- 
leable material.  Who  could  desire  a  more  gallant  attend- 
ant than  the  agile  though  elderly  Major  Beaufort,  who, 
with  a  large  party  of  nieces,  daughters,  and  granddaugh- 
ters, made  the  tour  of  the  watering-places  each  succeeding 
year,  pervading  the  atmosphere  of  each  with  the  subtle 
essence  of  his  gallantry  and  hilariousness  ? 

"I  should  be  a  miserable  man,  sir,"  proclaimed  the 
Major,  chivalrously  upon  each  succeeding  Thursday — "  I 
should  be  a  miserable  man  in  seeing  before  me  such  grace 
and  youth  and  beauty,  feeling  that  I  am  no  longer  young, 
if  I  did  not  possess  a  heart  which  will  throb  for  Woman  as 
long  as  it  beats  with  life." 

Having  distinguished  himself  by  which  poetic  remark, 
he  usually  called  up  a  waiter  with  champagne  and  glasses, 
in  which  beverage  he  gallantly  drank  the  health  of  the 
admiring  circle  which  partook  of  it  with  him. 

Attached  to  the  Beaufort  party  were  various  lesser  lumi- 
naries, each  of  whom,  it  must  be  confessed,  might  well, 

101 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

under  ordinary  circumstances,  have  formed  the  centre  of 
a  circle  himself  ;  legal  luminaries,  social  luminaries,  po- 
litical luminaries,  each  playing  ten-pins  and  whist,  each 
riding,  each  showing  in  all  small  gallantries,  and  adding 
by  their  presence  to  the  exhilaration  of  the  hour. 

There  was  one  gentleman,  however,  who,  though  he  was 
not  of  the  Beaufort  party,  could  still  not  be  considered 
among  the  lesser  luminaries.  He  was  a  planet  with  an 
orbit  of  his  own.  This  gentleman  had  ridden  up  to  the 
hotel  one  afternoon  on  a  fine  horse,  accompanied  by  a 
handsome,  gloomy  boy  on  another  animal  as  fine,  and  fol- 
lowed by  a  well-dressed  young  negro  carrying  various 
necessary  trappings,  and  himself  mounted  in  a  manner 
which  did  no  discredit  to  his  owner.  The  air  of  the  party 
was  such  as  to  occasion  some  sensation  on  the  front  gal- 
lery, where  the  greater  number  of  the  guests  were  congre- 
gated. 

"Oh,"  cried  one  of  the  Beauforts,  "what  a  distin- 
guished-looking man.  Oh,  what  a  handsome  boy  !  and 
what  splendid  horses." 

At  that  moment  one  of  the  other  ladies — a  dark,  quiet, 
clever  matron  from  South  Carolina — uttered  an  exclama- 
tion. 

"  Is  it  possible,"  she  said.  "  There  is  Colonel  De  Wil- 
loughby." 

The  new  arrival  recognised  her  at  once  and  made  his 
way  towards  her  with  the  most  graceful  air  of  ease  and 
pleasure,  notwithstanding  that  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  wind  his  way  dexterously  round  numerous  groups 
in  and  out  among  a  dozen  chairs. 

He  was  a  strikingly  handsome  man,  dark,  aquiline,  tall 
and  lithe  of  figure ;  his  clothes  fitted  him  marvellously 
well  at  the  waist,  his  slender  arched  foot  was  incased  in  a 

103 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

marvel  of  a  boot,  his  black  hair  was  rather  long,  and  his 
superb  eyes  gained  a  mysterious  depth  and  mellowness 
from  the  length  and  darkness  of  their  lashes  ;  altogether, 
it  was  quite  natural  that  for  the  moment  the  Beauforts 
and  their  satellites  should  pale  somewhat  by  comparison. 

When  he  bowed  over  Mrs.  Marvin's  hand,  a  thrill  of 
pleasure  made  itself  manifest  in  those  surrounding  them. 
He  spoke  in  the  most  melodious  of  voices. 

"The  greatest  of  pleasures,"  he  was  heard  to  say.  "I 
did  not  expect  this."  And  then,  in  response  to  some  ques- 
tion :  "  My  health  since — since  my  loss  has  been  very 
poor.  I  hope  to  recover  strength  and  spirits,"  with  an  air 
of  delicate  and  gentle  melancholy.  "  May  I  present  my 
boy— Rupert  ?  " 

In  response  to  the  summons  the  boy  came  forward — not 
awkwardly,  or  with  any  embarrassment,  but  with  a  bear- 
ing not  at  all  likely  to  create  a  pleasant  impression.  The 
guests  could  see  that  he  was  even  a  handsomer  boy  than 
he  had  seemed  at  a  greater  distance.  He  was  very  like 
his  father  in  the  matter  of  aquiline  features,  clear  pale- 
olive  skin  and  superb  dark  eyes  :  his  face  had  even  a  fine- 
ness the  older  man's  lacked,  but  the  straight  marks  of  a 
fixed  frown  were  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  mouth  wore  a 
look  which  accorded  well  with  the  lines. 

He  approached  and  bared  his  head,  making  his  boyish 
bow  in  a  manner  which  did  credit  to  his  training,  but 
though  he  blushed  slightly  on  being  addressed,  his  manner 
was  by  no  means  a  responsive  one,  and  he  moved  away  as 
soon  as  an  opportunity  presented  itself,  leaving  his  father 
making  himself  very  fascinating  in  a  gently  chivalric  way, 
and  establishing  himself  as  a  planet  by  the  mere  manner  of 
his  address  towards  a  woman  who  was  neither  pretty,  young, 
nor  enthusiastic. 

MB 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

There  was  no  woman  in  the  hotel  so  little  prone  to  en- 
thusiasm as  this  one, '  She  was  old  enough  and  clever 
enough  to  have  few  illusions.  It  was  thought  singular 
that  though  she  admitted  she  had  known  the  Colonel  from 
his  youth,  she  showed  very  little  partiality  for  his  society, 
and,  indeed,  treated  him  with  marked  reserve.  She  never 
joined  in  the  choruses  of  praise  which  were  chanted  daily 
around  her. 

"I  know  the  De  Willoughbys  very  well/'  she  said. 
"Oh,  yes,  very  well  indeed — in  a  way.  We  hear  a  good 
deal  of  them.  De  Courcy's  wife  was  a  friend  of  mine. 
This  one  is  De  Courcy,  the  other  is  Romaine,  and  there 
was  one  who  was  considered  a  sort  of  black  sheep  and  broke 
with  the  family  altogether.  They  don't  know  where  he  is 
and  don't  care  to  know,  I  suppose.  They  have  their  own 
views  of  the  matter.  Oh,  yes  ;  I  know  them  very  well,  in 


a  way." 


When  questioned  by  enthusiasts,  she  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  the  hero  of  the  hour  was  bountifully  supplied 
with  all  outward  gifts  of  nature,  was  to  be  envied  his 
charm  of  manner  and  the  air  of  romance  surrounding  him, 
though,  in  admitting  this,  she  added  a  little  comment  not 
generally  approved  of. 

"It's  a  little  of  the  Troubadour  order,"  she  said  ;  "but 
I  dare  say  no  woman  would  deny  that  it  is  rather  taking. 
I  don't  deny  it,  it  is  taking — if  you  don't  go  below  the  sur- 
face/' 

Never  was  a  man  so  popular  as  the  Colonel,  and  never  a 
man  so  missed  as  he  on  the  days  of  his  indisposition.  He 
had  such  days  when  he  did  not  leave  his  room  and  his 
negro  was  kept  busy  attending  to  his  wants.  The  nat- 
ure of  his  attacks  was  not  definitely  understood,  but  after 
them  he  always  appeared  wearing  an  interesting  air  of 

104 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

languor  and  melancholy,   and  was  more  admired  than 
ever. 

"  The  boy  seems  to  feel  it  very  much,"  the  lady  remarked. 
"He  always  looks  so  uneasy  and  anxious,  and  never  goes 
away  from  the  house  at  all.  I  suppose  they  are  very  fond 
of  each  other." 

"  I  dare  say  he  does  feel  it  very  much,"  said  Mrs.  Marvin 
with  her  reserved  little  smile.  "  He  is  De  Willoughby 
enough  for  that." 

It  was  not  agreed  to  that  he  inherited  his  father's  grace 
of  manner  however.  He  was  a  definitely  unamiable  boy, 
if  one  might  judge  from  appearances.  He  always  wore  a 
dark  little  scowl,  as  if  he  were  either  on  the  point  of  fall- 
ing into  a  secret  rage  or  making  his  way  out  of  one  ;  in- 
stead of  allowing  himself  to  be  admired  and  made  a  pet  of, 
he  showed  an  unnatural  preference  for  prowling  around 
the  grounds  and  galleries  alone,  sometimes  sitting  in  cor- 
ners and  professing  to  read,  but  generally  appearing  to  be 
meditating  resentfully  upon  his  wrongs  in  a  manner  which 
in  a  less  handsome  boy  would  have  been  decidedly  un- 
pleasant. Even  Mrs.  Marvin's  advances  did  not  meet  with 
any  show  of  cordiality,  though  it  was  allowed  that  he  ap- 
peared less  averse  to  her  society  than  to  that  of  any  other 
woman,  including  the  half  dozen  belles  and  beauties  who 
would  have  enjoyed  his  boyish  admiration  greatly. 

"I  knew  your  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Marvin  to  him  one 
day  as  he  sat  near  her  upon  the  gallery.  , 

"  Did  you  ?  "  he  answered,  in  a  rather  encouraging  way  ' 
"  When  did  you  know  her  ?  " 

"When  she  was  young.  We  were  girls  together.  She 
was  a  beauty  and  I  wasn't,  but  we  were  very  fond  of  each 
other." 

He  gave  his  closed  book  a  sullen  look. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  What  makes  women  break  so  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  don't 
see  why  they  break  so.  She  had  pretty  eyes  when  she 
died,  but, » 

He  drew  his  handsome  black  brows  down  and  scowled  •, 
and,  seeing  that  he  was  angry  at  himself  for  having  spoken, 
Mrs.  Marvin  made  another  remark. 

"  You  miss  her  very  much  ?"  she  said,  gravely. 

He  turned  his  face  away. 

"  She's  better  off  where  she  is,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"  That's  what  they  always  say  of  dead  people." 

And  then  still  frowning  he  got  up  and  walked  away. 

The  negro  servants  about  the  hotel  were  all  fond  of  him, 
though  his  manner  towards  them  was  that  of  a  fiery  and 
enthusiastic  young  potentate,  brooking  no  delay  or  inter- 
ference. His  beauty  and  his  high-handed  way  impressed 
them  as  being  the  belongings  of  one  favoured  by  fortune 
and  worthy  of  admiration  and  respect. 

"He's  a  D'VVilloughby  out  and  out,"  said  his  father's 
negro,  Tip.  "  Ain't  no  mistake  'bout  dat.  He's  a  young 
devil  when  his  spirit's  up,  'n  it's  easy  raised.  But  he's  a 
powerful  gen'lman  sort  o'  boy — powerful.  Throw's  you  a 
quarter  soon's  look  at  ye,  'n  he's  got  the  right  kind  o'  high 
ways — dough  der  ain't  no  sayin'  he  ain't  a  young  devil  ; 
de  Kurnel  hisself  cayn't  outcuss  him  when  his  spirit's 
np." 

The  Colonel  and  his  son  had  been  at  the  springs  a 
month,  when  the  fancy-dress  ball  took  place  which  was 
the  occasion  of  a  very  unpleasant  episode  in  the  annals  of 
this  summer. 

For  several  days  before  the  greatest  excitement  had 
prevailed  at  the  hotel.  A  pleasant  air  of  mystery  had  pre- 
vailed over  the  preparations  that  were  being  made.  The 
rural  proprietors  of  the  two  stores  in  which  the  neigh- 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

bourhood  rejoiced  were  driven  to  distraction  by  constant 
demands  made  upon  them  for  articles  and  materials  of 
which  they  had  never  before  heard,  and  which  were  not 
procurable  within  a  hundred  miles  of  the  place.  Bed- 
rooms were  overflowing  with  dresses  in  process  of  altera- 
tion from  ordinary  social  aspects  to  marvellous  combina- 
tions of  imagination  and  ingenuity,  while  an  amiable 
borrowing  and  exchanging  went  on  through  all  the  cor- 
ridors. 

On  the  day  before  the  ball  the  Colonel's  popularity 
reached  its  height.  As  it  was  the  time  of  a  certain  local 
election,  there  was  held  upon  the  grounds  a  political 
meeting,  giving  such  individuals  as  chose  to  avail  them- 
selves of  it  the  opportunity  of  expressing  their  opinion s  to 
the  assembled  guests  and  the  thirty  or  forty  mountaineers 
who  had  suddenly  and  without  any  warning  of  previous 
existence  appeared  upon  the  scene. 

The  Colonel  had  been  one  of  the  first  called  upon,  and, 
to  the  delight  of  his  admirers,  he  responded  at  once  with 
the  utmost  grace  to  the  call. 

When  he  ascended  the  little  platform  with  the  slow, 
light  step  which  was  numbered  among  his  chief  attrac- 
tions and  stood  before  his  audience  for  a  moment  looking 
down  at  them  gently  and  reflectively  from  under  his  beau- 
tiful lashes,  a  throb  of  expectation  was  felt  in  every  tender 
bosom. 

His  speech  fell  short  of  no  desire,  being  decided  to  be 
simple  perfection.  His  soft  voice,  his  quiet  ease  of  move- 
ment, his  eloquence,  were  all  that  could  be  hoped  for  from 
mortal  man.  He  mentioned  with  high-bred  depreciation 
the  fact  that  he  could  not  fairly  call  himself  a  politician 
unless  as  any  son  of  the  fair  South  must  be  one  at  least  at 
heart,  however  devoid  of  the  gifts  which  have  made  her 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

greatest  heard  from  continent  to  continent.  He  was  only 
one  of  the  many  who, had  at  stake  their  cherished  institu- 
tions, the  homes  they  loved,  the  beloved  who  brightened 
those  homes,  and  their  own  happiness  as  it  was  centred  in 
those  homes,  and  irrevocably  bound  in  that  of  the  fairest 
land  upon  which  the  fair  sun  shone. 

The  applause  at  this  juncture  was  so  great  as  to  oblige 
him  to  pause  for  a  few  moments  ;  but  it  was  to  be  re- 
gretted that  nine  out  of  ten  of  the  mountaineers  re- 
mained entirely  unresponsive,  crossing  their  jean-covered 
legs  and  rubbing  their  lean  and  grizzled  jaws  in  a  soulless 
manner.  They  displayed  this  apathetic  indifference  to  the 
most  graceful  flight  of  rhetoric,  to  the  most  musical  ap- 
peals to  the  hearts  of  all  men  loving  freedom,  to  the 
announcement  that  matters  had  reached  a  sad  and  signifi- 
cant crisis,  that  the  peculiar  institutions  left  as  a  legacy 
by  their  forefathers  were  threatened  by  the  Northern 
fanatics,  and  that  in  the  near  future  the  blood  of  patriots 
might  be  poured  forth  as  a  libation  upon  the  soil  they  loved; 
to  eloquent  denunciations  of  tne  hirelings  and  would-be 
violators  of  our  rights  under  the  constitution.  To  all  these 
they  listened,  evidently  devoting  all  their  slow  energies  to 
the  comprehension  of  it,  but  they  were  less  moved  than 
might  have  been  expected  of  men  little  used  to  oratory. 

But  it  was  the  termination  of  the  speech  that  stirred  all 
hearts.  With  a  dexterity  only  to  be  compared  to  its  easy 
grace,  the  orator  left  the  sterner  side  of  the  question  for  a 
tenderer  one  to  which  he  had  already  referred  in  passing, 
and  which  was  the  side  of  all  political  questions  which  pre- 
sented themselves  to  such  men  as  he.  Every  man,  it  was  to  be 
hoped,  knew  the  meaning  of  home  and  love  and  tenderness 
in  some  forrr,  however  poor  and  humble  and  unpatriotic  ; 
to  every  man  was  given  a  man's  privilege  of  defending  the 

108 


Jn  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

rights  and  sacredness  of  this  home,  this  love,  with  his 
strength,  with  his  might,  with  the  blood  of  his  beating 
heart  if  need  be.  To  a  Southern  man,  as  to  all  men,  his 
right  to  be  first  in  his  own  land  in  ruling,  in  choosing 
rulers,  in  carrying  out  the  laws,  meant  his  right  to  defend 
this  home  and  that  which  was  precious  to  him  within  it. 
There  were  a  few  before  him  upon  this  summer's  day,  alas, 
alas  !  that  Fate  should  will  it  so,  who  had  not  somewhere 
a  grave  whose  grass  moved  in  the  softness  of  the  wind  over 
dead  loves  and  hopes  cherished  even  in  this  hour  as  naught 
else  was  cherished.  And  these  graves " 

He  faltered  and  paused,  glancing  towards  the  doorway 
with  a  singular  expression.  For  a  few  seconds  he  could 
not  go  on.  He  was  obliged  to  raise  to  his  lips  the  glass  of 
water  which  had  been  provided  for  him. 

"  Oh  !  "  was  sighed  softly  through  the  room,  "  his  emo- 
tion has  overpowered  him.  Poor  fellow  !  how  sad  he 
looks." 

Mrs.  Marvin  simply  followed  the  direction  his  eyes  had 
taken.  She  was  a  practical  person.  The  object  her  eye 
met  was  the  figure  of  the  boy  who  had  come  in  a  few  minutes 
before.  He  was  leaning  against  the  doorpost,  attired  in  a 
cool  suit  of  white  linen,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  the  ex- 
pression of  his  handsome  darkling  young  face  a  most  curi- 
ous one.  He  was  staring  at  his  father  steadily,  his  fine 
eyes  wide  open  holding  a  spark  of  inward  rage,  his  nostrils 
dilated  and  quivering.  He  seemed  bent  upon  making  the 
orator  meet  his  glance,  but  the  orator  showed  no  desire  to 
do  so.  He  gave  his  sole  attention  to  his  glass  of  water. 
To  this  clever,  elderly  Southern  matron  it  was  an  interest- 
ing scene. 

"  If  he  sprang  up  in  two  minutes  and  threw  something 
deadly  and  murderous  at  Jiim,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

should  not  be  in  the  least  surprised  ;  and  I  should  not  be 
the  first  to  blame  him." 

But  the  rest  of  the  audience  was  intent  upon  the  Colo- 
nel, who,  recovering  himself,  finished  his  harangue  with 
an  appeal  that  the  land  made  sacred  by  those  loves,  those 
homes,  those  graves,  might  be  left  solely  in  the  hands  of 
the  men  who  loved  it  best,  who  knew  its  needs,  who  yearned 
for  its  highest  development,  and  who,  when  the  needful 
hour  arrived,  would  lay  down  their  lives  to  save  its  honour. 

When  he  concluded,  and  was  on  the  point  of  seating  him- 
self very  quietly,  without  any  appearance  of  being  conscious 
of  the  great  sensation  he  had  created,  and  still  wearing  an 
admirable  touch  of  melancholy  upon  his  fine  countenance, 
Major  Beaufort  rushed  towards  him,  almost  upsetting  a 
chair  in  his  eagerness,  and  grasped  his  hand  and  shook  it 
with  a  congratulatory  ardour  so  impressive  and  enthusias- 
tic as  to  be  a  sensation  in  itself. 

There  were  other  speeches  afterwards.  Fired  by  the  ex- 
ample of  his  friend,  Major  Beaufort  distinguished  himself 
by  an  harangue  overflowing  with  gallantry  and  adorned 
throughout  with  amiable  allusions  to  the  greatest  power  of 
all,  the  power  of  Youth,  Beauty,  and  Womanhood.  The 
political  perspicuity  of  the  address  was  perhaps  somewhat 
obscured  by  its  being  chivalrously  pointed  towards  those  fair 
beings  who  brighten  our  existence  and  lengthen  our  griefs. 
Without  the  Ladies,  the  speaker  found,  we  may  be  politi- 
cians, but  we  cannot  be  gentlemen.  He  discovered  (upon 
the  spot,  and  with  a  delicate  suggestion  of  pathos)  that  by 
a  curious  coincidence,  the  Ladies  were  the  men's  mothers, 
their  wives,  their  sisters,  their  daughters.  This  being 
greatly  applauded,  he  added  that  over  these  husbands,  these 
fathers,  these  brothers— -and  might  be  added  "  these  lovers" 
*-the  Ladies  wielded  $  mighty  influence,  The  position  of 


In  Connection  with 

The  De '  Willoughby  Claim 

Woman,  even  in  the  darkest  ages,  had  been  the  position 
of  one  whose  delicate  hand  worked  the  lever  of  the  world  ; 
but  to-day,  in  these  more  enlightened  times,  in  the  age  of 
advancement  and  discovery,  before  what  great  and  sublime 
power  did  the  nobleman,  the  inventor,  the  literary  man, 
the  warrior,  bow,  as  he  bowed  before  the  shrine  of  the 
Ladies  ? 

But  it  was  the  Colonel  who  bore  away  the  palm  and  was 
the  hero  of  the  hour.  When  the  audience  rose  he  was 
surrounded  at  once  by  groups  of  enthusiasts,  who  shook 
hands  with  him,  who  poured  forth  libations  of  praise, 
who  hung  upon  his  every  word  with  rapture. 

"  How  proud  of  you  he  must  be,"  said  one  of  the  fairest 
in  the  group  of  worshippers;  "boys  of  his  age  feel 
things  so  strongly.  I  wonder  why  he  doesn't  come  for- 
ward and  say  something  to  you  ?  He  is  too  shy,  I  suppose." 

"  I  dare  say,"  said  the  Colonel  with  his  most  fascinating 
gentle  smile.  "  One  must  not  expect  enthusiasm  of  boys. 
I  have  no  doubt  he  thought  it  a  great  bore  and  wondered 
what  I  was  aiming  at." 

"Impossible," exclaimed  the  fair  enslaver.  "Don't  do 
him  an  injustice,  Colonel  de  Willoughby." 

But  as  she  glanced  towards  the  doorway  her  voice  died 
down  and  the  expression  of  her  face  changed  somewhat. 
The  boy — still  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets — was  looking 
on  with  an  air  which  was  as  insolent  as  it  was  remarkable, 
an  air  of  youthful  scorn  and  malignant  derision  which 
staggered  even  the  enthusiast. 

She  turned  uneasily  to  the  Colonel,  who  faintly  smiled. 

"He  is  a  handsome  fellow,"  he  said,  "  and  I  must  own 
to  being  a  vain  parent,  but  he  has  a  demon  of  a  temper 
and  he  has  been  spoiled.  He'll  get  over  it  when  he  is 
older," 

Ml 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

It  was  a  great  blow  to  his  admirers  when  it  became 
known  the  next  morning  that  the  Colonel  was  suffering 
from  one  of  his  attacks,  and  even  a  worse  one  than  usual. 
Nel  was  shut  up  in  his  room  with  him  all  day,  and  it  was 
rumoured  that  the  boy  would  not  come  down,  but  wan- 
dered up  and  down  the  corridors  restlessly,  looking  mis- 
erable enough  to  have  touched  the  stoniest  heart. 

During  the  morning  quite  a  gloom  pervaded  the  at- 
mosphere ;  only  the  excitement  of  preparations  for  the 
evening  could  have  proved  an  antidote  to  the  general  de- 
pression. 

It  was  to  be  a  brilliant  occasion.  The  county  had  been 
scoured  for  guests,  some  of  whom  were  to  travel  in  their 
carriages  from  other  watering-places  for  twenty  or  thirty 
miles.  The  ball-room  had  been  decorated  by  a  committee 
of  ladies ;  the  costumes,  it  was  anticipated,  would  be  daz- 
zling beyond  measure.  No  disappointment  was  felt  when 
the  festal  hour  arrived,  but  the  very  keen  emotion  attend- 
ant upon  the  absence  of  the  interesting  invalid. 

"  If  he  had  only  been  well  enough  to  be  here,"  it  was 
said,  "how  he  would  have  enjoyed  it." 

Major  Beaufort,  attired  as  a  Sultan  and  appropriately 
surrounded  by  his  harem  in  sarsenet  trousers  and  spangled 
veils,  gave  universal  satisfaction.  Minnehaha  in  feathers 
and  moccasins,  and  Hiawatha  in  moccasins  and  feathers, 
gave  a  touch  of  mild  poetry  to  the  evening.  Sisters  of 
Charity  in  white  cambric  caps  told  their  beads  through 
the  mazes  of  the  lancers.  Night  and  Morning,  attired 
respectively  in  black  and  white  tarletan,  and  both  pro- 
fusely adorned  with  silver  paper  stars,  combined  their 
forces  to  add  romance  and  vividness  to  the  festive  scene. 

There  had  been  dancing  and  flirtation,  upon  which  those 
of  the  guests  who  did  not  join  gazed  for  an  hour  or  so  as 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

they  sat  in  the  chairs  arranged  around  the  walls,  doubtless 
enjoying  themselves  intensely,  and  the  gaiety  was  at  its 
height,  when  some  commotion  became  manifest  at  one  of 
the  doors.  Those  grouped  about  it  appeared  to  be  star- 
tled at  finding  something  or  somebody  behind  them,  and 
almost  immediately  it  was  seen  that  this  something  or 
somebody  was  bent  upon  crowding  past  them.  A  loud, 
insane-sounding  laugh  was  heard.  The  dancers  stopped 
and  turned  towards  it  with  one  accord,  their  alarm  and 
astonishment  depicted  on  their  faces.  The  spectators 
bent  forward  in  their  seats. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  was  the  general  exclamation.  " Oh!  Oh!" 

This  last  interjection  took  the  form  of  a  chorus  as  two 
of  the  group  at  the  doorway  were  pushed  headlong  into 
the  room,  and  a  tall,  unsteady,  half-dressed  figure  made  its 
violent  entrance. 

At  the  first  glance  it  was  not  easy  to  recognize  it ;  it  was 
simply  the  figure  of  a  very  tall  man  in  an  ungirt  costume, 
composed  of  shirt  and  pantaloons.  He  was  crushed  and 
dishevelled.  His  hair  hung  over  his  forehead.  He  strode 
into  the  middle  of  the  quadrille,  and  stood  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  swaying  to  and  fro,  with  a  stare  at  once 
malicious  and  vacant. 

"  Oh,"  he  remarked,  sardonically,  as  he  took  in  his  sur- 
roundings, and  then  everyone  recognized  at  once  that  it 
was  Colonel  De  Willoughby,  and  that  Colonel  De  Wil- 
loughby was  mad  drunk. 

He  caught  sight  of  Major  Beaufort,  and  staggered 
towards  him  with  another  frantic  laugh. 

"Good  God,  Major,"  he  cried  ;  "how  becomin'  'tis,  how 
damned  becomin'.  Harem  an'  all.  Only  trouble  is  you're 
too  fat — too  fat ;  if  you  weren't  so  fat  wouldn't  look  such 
a  damned  fool." 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

It  was  to  be  regretted  there  was  no  longer  an  air  of  refine- 
ment about  his  intoxication,  no  suggestion  of  melancholy 
grace,  no  ghost  of  his  usual  high-bred  suavity ;  with  his 
laugh  and  stare  and  unsteady  legs  he  was  simply  a  more 
drunken  lunatic  than  one  generally  sees. 

There  was  a  rush  at  him  from  all  sides — Major  Beaufort, 
in  his  Turkish  trousers,  being  the  first  to  fall  upon  him 
and  have  his  turban  stamped  upon  in  the  encounter.  He 
was  borne  across  the  room,  shouting  and  struggling  and 
indulging  in  profanity  of  the  most  frightful  kind.  Just 
as  they  got  him  to  the  door  his  black  boy  Neb  appeared, 
looking  ashen  with  fright. 

"  De  Lord  o*  massey,"  he  cried.  "I  ain't  lef  him 
more'n  a  minit.  He  sent  me  down  hisself.  One  o'  his 
cunnin'  ways  to  get  rid  o'  me  when  he's  at  de  wust.  Opium 
'n  whiskey,  dats  what  gets  him  dis  way.  Bof  togedder 
agwine  ter  kill  him  some  dese  days,  'n  de  opium  am  de 
wustest.  For  de  Lord's  sake  some  o'  you  gen'men  cum  'n 
hep  me  till  I  git  him  quieted  down." 

It  was  all  over  in  a  few  moments,  but  the  effort  made 
to  return  to  hilariousness  was  a  failure  ;  the  shock  to  the 
majority  of  the  gay  throng  had  been  great.  Mrs.  Marvin, 
sitting  in  her  special  corner,  was  besieged  with  questions, 
and  at  length  was  prevailed  upon  through  the  force  of 
circumstances  to  speak  the  truth  as  she  knew  it. 

"  Has  he  ever  done  it  before  ?"  she  said.  "Yes,  he  has 
done  it  before — he  has  done  it  a  dozen  times  since  he  has 
been  here,  only  to-night  he  was  madder  than  usual  and  got 
away  from  his  servant.  What  is  it  ?  It  is  opium  when  it 
isn't  whiskey,  and  whiskey  when  it  isn't  opium,  and 
oftenest  it  is  both  together.  He  is  the  worst  of  a  bad  lot, 
and  if  you  haven't  understood  that  miserable  angry  boy 
before  you  may  understand  him  now.  His  mother  died 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

of  a  broken  heart  when  he  was  twelve  years  old,  and  he 
watched  her  die  of  it  and  knew  what  killed  her,  and  is 
proud  enough  to  feel  the  shame  that  rests  upon  him. 
That's  as  much  as  I  care  to  say,  and  yet  it  isn't  the  half." 

When  those  bearing  the  Colonel  to  his  room  turned  into 
the  corridor  leading  to  it  they  encountered  his  son,  who 
met  them  with  a  white-lipped  rage,  startling  to  every  man 
of  them  in  its  incongruous  contrast  to  the  boyish  face  and 
figure. 

"  What  ?  "  he  said,  panting.  "  You've  got  him,  have 
you?" 

"Yes,"  responded  the  Colonel  hilariously  ;  "  've  got  me 
safe  'nuff  ;  pick  me  up  ad'  car'  me.  If  man  won't  go  out, 
tote  'm  out." 

They  carried  him  into  his  rooms  and  laid  him  down,  and 
more  than  one  among  them  turned  curiously  to  the  boy  as 
he  stood  near  the  bed  looking  down  at  the  dishevelled, 
incoherent,  gibbering  object  upon  it. 

"  Damn  him,"  he  said  in  a  sudden  outburst ;  "  damn 
him." 

"Hello,  youngster,"  said  one  of  the  party,  "that's  not 
the  thing  exactly." 

"  Go  to  the  devil,"  roared  the  lad,  livid  with  wrath  and 
shame.  "  Do  you  think  I'll  not  say  what  I  please  ?  A 
nice  one  he  is  for  a  fellow  to  have  for  a  father — to  be  tied 
to  and  dragged  about  by — drinking  himself  mad  and  dis- 
gracing himself  after  his  palaver  and  sentiment  and  play- 
ing the  gentleman.  He  ought  to  be  a  gentleman — he's  got 
a  gentleman's  name,  and" —  clicking  a  little — "  all  the  rest 
of  it.  I  hate  him !  He  makes  me  sick.  I  wish  he  was 
dead.  He's  a  liar  and  a  bully  and  a  fool.  I'd  kill  him  if 
he  wasn't  my  father.  I  should  like  to  kill  him  for  being 
my  father  ! " 

1J5 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Suddenly  his  voice  faltered  and  his  face  turned  white. 
He  walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  turning  his  back 
to  them  all,  and,  flinging  himself  into  a  chair,  dropped  his 
curly  head  on  his  arm  on  the  window-sill  and  sobbed  aloud 
with  a  weakness  and  broken-down  fury  pitiful  to  see. 

The  Colonel  burst  into  a  frantic  shriek  of  laughter. 

"  Queer  little  devil,"  he  said.  "  Prou'  lit'l  devil !  Like's 
moth' — don'  like  it.  Moth'  used  er  cry.  She  didn't  like  it." 


CHAPTER  X 

As  the  Cross-roads  had  regarded  Tom  as  a  piece  of 
personal  property  to  be  proud  of,  so  it  fell  into  the  habit 
of  regarding  his  protegee.  The  romance  of  her  history 
was  considered  to  confer  distinction  upon  the  vicinity,  and 
Tom's  affection  for  her  was  approved  of  as  a  sentiment 
worthy  of  the  largeness  of  the  Cross-roads  nature. 

"  They  kinder  set  one  anuther  off,"  it  was  frequently 
remarked,  "  her  a-bein'  so  little  and  him  so  big,  an'  both 
of  'em  stickin'  to  each  other  so  clost.  Lordy  !  'tain't  no 
use  a-tryin'  to  part  'em.  Sheby,  she  ain't  a-goin'  nowhar 
'thout  Tom,  an'  Tom,  he  h'aint  a-goin'  nowhars  'thout 
Sheby  ! " 

When  the  child  was  five  years  old  the  changes  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  store  were  followed  by  still  greater 
changes  in  the  house.  Up  to  her  fifth  birthday  the  expe- 
riences had  balanced  themselves  between  the  store  and 
the  three  back  rooms  with  their  bare  floors  and  rough 
walls.  She  had  had  her  corner,  her  small  chair  behind 
the  counter  or  near  the  stove,  and  there  she  had  amused 
herself  with  her  playthings  through  long  or  short  days, 
and  in  the  evening  Tom  had  taken  her  upon  his  shoulder 
and  carried  her  back  to  the  house,  as  it  was  called,  leaving 
his  careless,  roystering  gaiety  behind  him  locked  up  in 
the  store,  ready  to  be  resumed  for  the  edification  of  his 
customers  the  next  morning. 

"  He  don't  hev  no  pore  folkses  ways  wid  dat  chile,"  said 
Morniu  once  to  Mrs,  Doty  ;  "  he  don't  never  speajc  to  her 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

no  other  then  gentleman  way.  He's  a-raisin'  her  to  be 
fitten  fur  de  highes'.  /-He's  mighty  keerful  ob  her  way  ob 
speakin'  an"  settin'  to  de  table.  Mornin's  got  to  stand 
'hind  her  cheer  an'  wait  on  her  hersel* ;  an'  sence  she  was 
big  'nuff  to  set  dar,  she's  had  a  silver  fork  an'  spoon 
an'  napkin-ring  same's  de  President  himself.  Ah  ;  he's 
a-raisin'  her  keerful,  is  Mars  D'Willerby." 

"Waal,"  said  Mrs.  Doty,  "  ef  'twarn't  Tom  D'Willerby, 
I  shed  say  it  was  a  puttin'  on  airs ;  but  thar  ain't  no  airs 
'bout  Tom  D'Willerby." 

From  the  first  Mr.  Stamps's  interest  in  Tom's  protegee 
had  been  unfailing  though  quiet.  When  he  came  into 
the  store,  which  he  did  some  three  times  a  week,  it  was 
his  habit  to  fix  his  small,  pale  eyes  upon  her  and  follow 
her  movements  stealthily  but  with  unflagging  watchful- 
ness. Occasionally  this  occupation  so  absorbed  him  that 
when  she  moved  to  her  small  corner  behind  the  counter, 
vaguely  oppressed  by  his  surveillance,  he  sauntered  across 
the  room  and  took  his  seat  upon  the  counter  itself,  per- 
sisting in  his  mild,  furtive  gaze,  until  it  became  too  much 
for  her  and  she  sought  refuge  at  Tom's  knee. 

"  He  looks  at  me,"  she  burst  out  distressedly  on  one 
such  day.  "  Don't  let  him  look  at  me." 

Tom  gave  a  start  and  turned  round,  and  Mr.  Stamps 
gave  a  start  also,  at  once  mildly  recovering  himself. 

"  Leave  her  alone,"  said  Tom,  "  what  are  you  lookin' 
at  her  for  ?  " 

Mr.  Stamps  smiled. 

"  Thar's  no  law  agin  it,  Tom,"  he  replied.  "  An'  she's 
wuth  a  lookin'  at.  She's  that  kind,  an'  it'll  grow  on  her. 
Ten  year  from  now  thar  ain't  no  law  es  'ed  keep  'em 
from  lookin'  at  her,  'thout  it  was  made  an'  passed  in  Con- 
|rist,  SWll  feer  to  git  reckonciled  to  arbeiw'  looked  at," 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Leave  her  alone/'  repeated  Tom,  quite  fiercely.  ' '  I'll 
not  have  her  troubled." 

"  I  didn't  go  to  trouble  her,  Tom/'  said  Mr.  Stamps, 
softly  ;  and  he  slipped  down  from  the  counter  and  sidled 
out  of  the  store  and  went  home. 

With  Mr.  Stamps  Sheba  always  connected  her  first 
knowledge  of  the  fact  that  her  protector's  temper  could 
be  disturbed.  She  had  never  seen  him  angry  until  she 
saw  Mr.  Stamps  rouse  him  to  wrath  on  the  eventful  fifth 
birthday,  from  which  the  first  exciting  events  of  her  life 
dated  themselves.  Up  to  that  time  she  had  seen  only  in 
his  great  strength  and  broad  build  a  power  to  protect  and 
shield  her  own  fragility  and  smallness  from  harm  or  fear. 
When  he  took  her  in  his  huge  arms  and  held  her  at  what 
seemed  to  be  an  incredible  height  from  the  ordinary  plat- 
form of  existence,  she  had  only  felt  the  cautious  tender- 
ness of  his  touch  and  recognised  her  own  safety,  and  it 
had  never  occurred  to  her  that  his  tremendous  voice, 
which  was  so  strong  and  deep  by  nature,  that  it  might 
have  been  a  terrible  one  if  he  had  chosen  to  make  it  so, 
could  express  any  other  feeling  than  kindliness  in  its 
cheery  roar. 

But  on  this  fifth  birthday  Tom  presented  himself  to  her 
childish  mind  in  a  new  light. 

She  had  awakened  early  to  find  him  standing  at  her 
small  bedside  and  a  new  doll  lying  in  her  arms.  It  was  a 
bigger  doll  than  she  had  ever  owned  before,  and  so  gaily 
dressed,  that  in  her  first  rapture  her  breath  quite  forsook 
her.  When  she  recovered  it,  she  scrambled  up,  holding 
her  new  possession  in  one  arm  and  clung  with  the  other 
around  Tom's  neck. 

"  Oh,  the  lovely,  lovely  doll  !  "  she  cried,  and  then  hid 
her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Hallo/'  said  Tom,  hugging  her,  "  what  is  she  hiding 
her  eyes  for  ?  " 

She  nestled  closer  to  him  with  a  little  sob  of  loving  de- 
light. 

"Because  —  because  of  the  doll,"  she  answered,  be- 
wildered by  her  own  little  demonstration  and  yet  perfect 
in  her  confidence  that  he  would  understand  her. 

"  Well/'  said  Tom,  cheerfully,  "  that's  a  queer  thing, 
ain't  it  ?  Look  here,  did  you  know  it  was  your  birthday  ? 
Five  years  old  to-day — think  of  that." 

He  sat  down  and  settled  her  in  her  usual  place  on  his 
knee,  her  doll  in  her  arms. 

"  To  think,"  he  said,  "  of  her  setting  up  a  birthday  on 
purpose  to  be  five  years  old  and  have  a  doll  given  her. 
That's  a  nice  business,  ain't  it  ?  " 

After  they  had  breakfasted  together  in  state,  the  doll 
was  carried  into  the  store  to  be  played  with  there.  It  was 
a  wet  day,  and,  the  air  being  chilled  by  a  heavy  mountain 
rain,  a  small  fire  was  burning  in  the  stove,  and  by  this  fire 
the  two  settled  themselves  to  enjoy  the  morning  together, 
the  weather  precluding  the  possibility  of  their  being  dis- 
turbed by  many  customers.  But  in  the  height  of  their 
quiet  enjoyment  they  were  broken  in  upon  by  the  sound 
of  horse's  hoot's  splashing  in  the  mud  outside  and  Mr. 
Stamps's  hat  appeared  above  the  window-sill. 

It  was  Sheba  who  saw  it  first,  and  in  the  strength  of  her 
desire  to  avoid  the  wearer,  she  formed  a  desperate  plan. 
She  rose  so  quietly  that  Tom,  who  was  reading  a  paper, 
did  not  hear  her,  and,  having  risen,  drew  her  small  chair 
behind  the  counter  in  the  hope  that,  finding  her  place 
vacant,  the  visitor  would  not  suspect  her  presence. 

In  this  she  was  not  disappointed.  Having  brushed  the 
mud  from  his  feet  on  the  porch,  Mr.  Stamps  appeared  at 

120 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

the  doorway,  and,  after  his  usual  precautionary  glance 
about  him,  made  his  way  to  the  stove.  His  manner  was  at 
once  propitiatory  and  friendly.  He  drew  up  a  chair  and 
put  his  wet  feet  on  the  stove,  where  they  kept  up  a  com- 
fortable hissing  sound  as  they  dried. 

"  Howdy,  Tom,"  he  said,  "  howdy  ?  "  And  from  her 
hiding-place  Sheba  saw  him  rubbing  his  legs  from  the 
knee  downwards  as  he  said  it,  with  an  air  of  solid  enjoy- 
ment which  suggested  that  he  was  congratulating  himself 
upon  something  he  had  in  his  mind. 

"  Morning"  responded  Tom. 

Mr.  Stamps  rubbed  his  legs  again  quite  luxuriously. 

"  You're  a  lookin'  well,  Tom,"  he  remarked.  "  Lord, 
yes,  ye're  a  lookin'  powerful  well." 

Tom  laid  his  paper  down  and  folded  it  on  his  knee. 

"Lookin'  well,  am  I?"  he  answered.  "Well,  Fm  a 
delicate  weakly  sort  of  fellow  in  general,  I  am,  and  it's 
encouraging  to  hear  that  Fm  looking  well." 

Mr.  Stamps  laughed  rather  spasmodically. 

"  I  wouldn't  be  agin  bein'  the  same  kind  o'  weakly  my- 
self," he  said,  "  nor  the  same  kind  o'  delycate.  You're  a 
powerfle  hansum  man,  Tom." 

"Yes,"  replied  Tom,  drily,  "  Fm.  a  handsome  man. 
That's  what  carried  me  along  this  far.  It's  what  Fve  al- 
ways had  to  rely  on — that  and  a  knock-down  intellect." 

Mr.  Stamps  rubbed  his  legs  with  his  air  of  luxury  again. 

"  Folks  is  fond  o'  sayin'  beauty  ain't  but  skin  deep,"  he 
said  ;  "but  I  wouldn't  hev  it  no  deeper  myself — bein'  so 
that  it  kivers.  An',  talkin'  o'  beauty,  she's  one — Lord, 
yes.  She's  one." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Tom,  "leave  her  alone." 

"  'Tain't  a  gwine  to  harm  her,  Tom,"  replied  Mr. 
Stamps,  "  'tain't  a  gwine  to  harm  her  none.  What 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

me  think  of  it  was  it  a  bein'  jest  five  years  since  she  was 
born — a  makin'  it  her' birthday  an'  her  jest  five  years  old/' 

"  What/'  cried  Tom,  "  you've  been  counting  it  up, 
have  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Stamps,  with  true  modesty  of  de- 
meanour, "  I  ain't  ben  a  countin'  of  it  up,  Tom."  And 
he  drew  a  dirty  memorandum  book  softly  from  his  pocket. 
"  I  set  it  down  at  the  time  es  it  happened." 

He  laid  the  dirty  book  on  his  knee  and  turned  over  its 
pages  carefully  as  if  looking  for  some  note. 

"I  ain't  much  on  readin'  an'  writin',"  he  said,  "an' 
'rithmetick  it  goes  kinder  hard  with  me  now  an'  agin,  but 
a  man's  got  to  know  suthin'  on  'em  if  he  'lows  to  keep 
anyways  even.  I  'low  to  keep  even,  sorter,  an'  I've  give  a 
good  deal  o'  time  to  steddyin'  of  'em.  I  never  went  to  no 
school,  but  I've  sot  things  down  es  I  want  to  remember, 
an'  I  kin  count  out  money.  I  never  was  imposed  on  none 
I  rekin,  an'  I  never  lost  nothin'.  Yere's  whar  I  sot  it 
down  about  her  a-bein'  born  an'  the  woman  a-dyin'  an'  him 
a-gwine  away.  Ye  cayn't  read  it,  mebbe."  He  bent  for- 
ward, pointing  to  the  open  page  and  looking  up  at  Tom  as 
if  he  expected  him  to  be  interested.  "  Thar  it  is,"  he 
added  in  his  thin,  piping,  little  voice,  "even  to  the  time 
o'  day.  Mornin,  she  told  me  that.  'Bout  three  o'clock  in 
the  mornin'  in  thet  thar  little  front  room.  Ef  anyone  shed 
ever  want  to  know  particular,  thar  it  is." 

The  look  in  Tom's  face  was  far  from  being  a  calm  one. 
He  fidgetted  in  his  chair  and  finally  rolled  his  paper  into  a 
hard  wad  and  threw  it  at  the  counter  as  if  it  had  been  a 
missile. 

"  See  here,"  he  exclaimed,  "  take  my  advice  and  let  that 
alone." 

Mr,  Stamps  regarded  his  dirty  book  affectionately. 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  'Tain't  a-gvvine  to  hurt  nothiu'  to  hev  it  down/'  he 
replied,  with  an  air  of  simplicity. 

He  shut  it  up,  returned  it  to  his  pocket,  and  clasped  his 
hands  about  his  knees,  while  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
glimmer  of  red  showing  itself  through  a  crack  in  a  stove- 
plate. 

"  It's  kinder  curi's  I  should  hev  happened  along  by  thar 
this  mommy  he  remarked,  reflectively. 

"By  where  ?"  demanded  Tom. 

Mr.  Stamps  hugged  his  knees  as  if  he  enjoyed  their  com- 
panionship. 

"  By  thar,"  he  responded,  cheerfully,  "  the  Holler,  Tom. 
An'  it  'peared  to  me  it  'ed  be  kinder  int'restin'  to  take  a 
look  through,  bein'  as  this  was  the  day  as  the  thing  kinder 
started.  So  I  hitched  my  mule  an'  went  in."  He  paused 
a  moment  as  if  to  enjoy  his  knees  again. 

"Well,"  said  Tom. 

Mr.  Stamps  looked  up  at  him  harmlessly.  "  Eh  ?  "  he 
enquired. 

"  I  said  '  well,'"  answered  Tom,  "  that's  what  I  said." 

"  Oh,"  replied  Mr.  Stamps.  "  Waal,  thar  wasn't  nothin' 
thar,  Tom." 

For  the  moment  Tom's  expression  was  one  of  relief. 
But  he  said  nothing. 

"  Thar  wasn't  nothin'  thar,"  Mr.  Stamps  continued. 
Then  occurred  another  pause.  "  Nothin',"  he  added  after 
it,  "  nothin'  particular." 

The  tenderness  with  which  he  embraced  his  knees  at  this 
juncture  had  something  like  fascination  in  it. 

Tom  found  himself  fixing  a  serious  gaze  upon  his  clasp- 
arms. 

I  kinder  looked  round,"  he  proceeded,  "  an'  if  there'd 
ben  anythin'  thar  I  'low  I'd  hev  seed  it.     But  thar  wasn't 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Chin* 

nothin',  nothin'  but  the  empty  rooms  an'  a  dead  leaf  or  so 
es  bed  blowed  in  through  a  broken  winder,  an'  the  pile  o' 
ashes  in  the  fireplace  beat  down  with  the  rain  as  bed 
fell  down  the  chimney.  Mighty  lonesome  an'  still  them 
ashes  looked  ;  an'  thar  wasn't  nothin'  but  them  an'  the 
leaves, an'  a  bit  of  a'  envelope." 

Tom  moved  his  chair  back.  Sheba  thought  he  was 
going  to  get  up  suddenly.  But  he  remained  seated, 
perhaps  because  Mr.  Stamps  began  again. 

"  Thar  wasn't  nothin'  but  them  an'  the  bit  of  a 
envelope,"  he  remarked.  "It  was  a-sticken  in  a  crack  o' 
the  house,  low  down,  like  it  hed  ben  swep'  or  blowed  thar 
an'  overlooked.  I  shouldn't  hev  seed  it " — modestly — "  ef 
I  hedn't  ben  a-goin'  round  on  my  hands  an'  knees." 

Then  Tom  rose  very  suddenly  indeed,  so  suddenly  that 
he  knocked  his  chair  over  and  amazed  Sheba  by  kicking  it 
violently  across  the  store.  For  the  moment  he  so  far  forgot 
himself  as  to  be  possessed  with  some  idea  of  falling  upon 
Mr.  Stamps  with  the  intent  to  do  him  bodily  injury.  He 
seized  him  by  the  shoulders  and  turned  him  about  so  that 
he  had  an  excellent  view  of  his  unprepossessing  buck. 
What  Mr.  Stamps  thought  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
discover.  Sheba  fancied  that  when  he  opened  his  mouth 
he  was  going  to  utter  a  cry  of  terror.  But  he  did  not. 
He  turned  his  neck  about  as  well  as  he  could  under  the 
circumstances,  and  looking  up  into  Tom's  face  meekly 
smiled. 

"  Tom,"  he  said,  "ye  ain't  a-gwine  ter  do  a  thing  to  me, 
not  a  dern  thing." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  cried  Tom,  furiously,  "I'm  goin'  to 
kick " 

"  Ef  ye  was  jest  haaf  to  let  drive  at  me,  ye'd  break  my 
neck;"  said  Mr,  Stamps,  "an  ye  ain't  a-gwine  ter  dp  it, 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Ef  ye  was,  Tom,  ye'd  be  a  bigger  fool  than  I  took  ye  for. 
Lemme  go." 

He  looked  so  diminutive  and  weak-eyed,  as  he  made 
these  remarks,  that  it  was  no  wonder  Tom  released  him 
helplessly,  though  he  was  obliged  to  thrust  his  hands  deep 
into  his  pockets  and  keep  them  under  control. 

"  I  thought  I'd  given  you  one  lesson,"  he  burst  forth  ; 
"  I  thought " 

Mr.  Stamps  interrupted  him,  continuing  to  argue  his 
side  of  the  question,  evidently  feeling  it  well  worth  his 
while  to  dispose  of  it  on  the  spot. 

"  Ye  weigh  three  hundred,  Tom,"  he  said,  "  ef  ye  weigh 
a  pound,  an'  I  don't  weigh  but  ninety,  'n  ye  couldn't  handle 
me  keerf  ill  enuf  not  to  leave  me  in  a  fix  as  wouldn't  be  no 
credit  to  ye  when  ye  was  done  ;  'n  it  'ed  look  kinder  bad 
for  ye  to  meddle  with  me,  anyhow.  An'  the  madder  ye 
get,  the  more  particular  ye'll  be  not  to.  Thar's  whar  ye 
are,  Tom  ;  an'  I  ain't  sich  a  fool  as  not  to  know  it." 

His  perfect  confidence  in  the  strength  of  his  position, 
and  in  Tom's  helplessness  against  it,  was  a  thing  to  be 
remembered.  Tom  remembered  it  long  afterwards,  though 
at  the  moment  it  only  roused  him  to  greater  heat. 

"Now  then,"  he  demanded,  "let's  hear  what  you're 
driving  at.  What  I  want  to  know  is  what  you're  driving 
at.  Let's  hear." 

Mr.  Stamps's  pale  eyes  fixed  themselves  with  interest  on 
his  angry  face.  He  had  seated  himself  in  his  chair  again, 
and  he  watched  Tom  closely  as  he  rambled  on  in  his  simple, 
uncomplaining  way. 

"  Ye're  fond  o'  laughin'  at  me  round  yere  at  the  store, 
Tom,"  he  remarked,  "  an'  I  ain't  agin  it.  A  man  don't 
make  nothin'  much  by  bein'  laughed  at,  I  rekin,  but  he 
don't  lose  nothin'  nuther,  an'  that's  what  I  am  agin.  I 

125 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

rekin  ye  laugh  'cos  I  kinder  look  like  a  fool — an'  I  hain't 
nothin'  agin  thet,  nuther,  Lord  !  not  by  a  heap.  A  man 
ain't  a-gwine  to  lose  nothin'  by  lookin'  like  a  fool.  I  hain't 
never,  not  a  cent,  Tom.  But  I  ain't  esbig  a  fool  esl  look, 
an'  I  don't  'low  ye  air,  uther.  Thar's  whar  I  argy  from. 
Ye  ain't  es  big  a  fool  as  ye  look,  an'  ye'd  be  in  a  bad  fix  ef 
ye  was." 

"  Go  on,"  ordered  Tom,  "  and  leave  me  out." 

"I  cayn't  leave  ye  out,  Tom,"  said  Mr.  Stamps,  "  f er 
ye're  in.  Ye'd  be  as  big  a  fool  as  ye  look  ef  ye  was  doin' 
all  this  yere  fer  nothin'." 

"All  what  ?"  demanded  Tom. 

"Gals,"  suggested  Mr.  Stamps,  "  is  plenty.  An'  ef 
ye  take  to  raisin'  'em  as  this  un's  ben  raised,  ye  ain't 
makin'  much ;  an'  ef  thar  ain't  nothin'  to  be  made,  Tom, 
what's  yer  aim  ?  " 

He  put  it  as  if  it  was  a  conundrum  without  an  an- 
swer. 

'"  What's  yer  aim,  Tom  ?  "  he  repeated,  pleasantly,  "  ef 
thar  ain't  nothin'  to  be  made  ?  " 

Tom's  honest  face  flamed  into  red  which  was  almost 
purple,  the  veins  swelled  on  his  forehead,  his  indignation 
almost  deprived  him  of  his  breath.  He  fell  into  a  chair 
with  a  concussion  which  shook  the  building. 

"  Good — good  Lord  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  ( '  how  I  wish  you 
weighed  five  hundred  pounds." 

It  is  quite  certain  that  if  Stamps  had,  he  would  have  de- 
molished him  utterly  upon  the  spot,  leaving  him  in  such  a 
condition  that  his  remains  would  hardly  have  been  a  source 
of  consolation  to  his  friends.  He  pointed  to  the  door. 

"  If  yon  want  to  get  out,"  he  said, ' '  start.  This  is  get- 
ting the  better  of  me — and  if  it  does " 

Mr.  Stamps  rose. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Ye  wouldn't  do  a  dern  thing,  Torn,"  he  said,  peaceably, 
"  not  a  dern  thing." 

He  sidled  towards  the  door,  and  reaching  it,  paused  to 
reflect,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Ef  thar  ain't  nothin'  to  be  made/'  he  said,  "  ye'v  got 
ter  hev  a  aim,  an'  what  is  it  ?  " 

Observing  that  Tom  made  a  move  in  his  chair,  he  slipped 
through  the  doorway  rather  hurriedly.  Sheba  thought  he 
was  gone,  but  a  moment  later  the  door  re-opened  and  he 
thrust  his  head  in  and  spoke,  not  intrusively — simply  as  if 
offering  a  suggestion  which  might  prove  of  interest. 

"  It  begun  with  a  '  L/  "  he  said  ;  "  thar  was  a  name  on 
it,  and  it  begun  with  a  '  L  V 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  upon  the  evening  after  this  interview  with  Mr. 
Stamps  that  Tom  broached  to  his  young  companion  a 
plan  which  had  lain  half  developed  in  his  mind  for  some 
time. 

They  had  gone  into  the  back  room  and  eaten  together 
the  supper  Mornin  had  prepared  with  some  extra  elabora- 
tion to  do  honour  to  the  day,  and  then  bheba  had  played 
with  her  doll  Lucinda  while  Tom  looked  on,  somewhat 
neglecting  his  newspaper  and  pipe  in  his  interest  in  her 
small  pretence  of  maternity. 

At  last,  when  she  had  put  Lucinda  to  sleep  in  the 
wooden  cradle  which  had  been  her  own,  he  called  her  to 
him. 

"  Come  here/'  he  said,  "I  want  to  ask  you  a  question/' 

She  came  readily  and  stood  at  his  knee,  laying  her 
hands  upon  it  and  looking  up  at  him,  as  she  had  had  a 
habit  of  doing  ever  since  she  first  stood  alone. 

"  How  would  you  like  some  new  rooms  ?  "  he  said,  sug- 
gestively. 

"Like  these?"  she  answered,  a  pretty  wonder  in  her 
eyes. 

"  No,"  said  Tom,  "  not  like  these — bigger  and  brighter 
and  prettier.  With  flowers  on  the  walls  and  flowers  on  the 
carpets,  and  all  the  rest  to  match." 

lie  had  mentioned  this  bold  idea  to  Molly  Hollister  the 
day  before,  and  she  had  shown  such  pleasure  in  it,  that  he 
had  been  quite  elated. 

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"It's  not  that  I  need  anything  different/'  he  had  said 
"but  the  roughness  and  bareness  don't  seem  to  suit  her. 
I've  thought  it  often  when  I've  seen  her  running  about." 

"Seems  like  thar  ain't  nothin'  you  don't  think  of,  Tom," 
said  Molly,  admiringly. 

"  Well,"  he  admitted,  "  I  think  about  her  a  good  deal, 
that's  a  fact.  She  seems  to  have  given  me  a  kind  of  imag- 
ination. I  used  to  think  I  hadn't  any." 

He  had  imagination  enough  to  recognise  at  the  present 
moment  in  the  child's  uplifted  face  some  wistful  thought 
she  did  not  know  how  to  express,  and  he  responded  to  it 
by  speaking  again. 

"  They'll  be  prettier  rooms  than  these/'  he  said.  "  What 
do  you  say  ?  " 

Her  glance  wandered  across  the  hearth  to  where  the  cradle 
stood  in  the  corner  with  Lucinda  in  it.  Then  she  looked 
up  at  him  again. 

"  Prettier  than  this,"  she  repeated,  "with  flowers.  But 
don't  take  this  away."  The  feeling  which  stirred  her 
flushed  her  childish  cheek  and  made  her  breath  come  and 
go  faster.  She  drew  still  nearer  to  him. 

"  Don't  take  this  away,"  she  repeated,  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Tom,  giving  her  a  curious  look. 

She  met  the  look  helplessly.  She  could  not  have  put 
her  vague  thought  into  words. 

"  Don't — don't  take  it  away/'  she  said  again,  and  sud- 
denly laid  her  face  upon  his  great  open  palm. 

For  a  minute  or  two  there  was  silence.  Tom  sat  very 
still  and  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  No,"  he  said  at  length,  "  we  won't  take  it  away." 

In  a  few  days,  however,  it  was  well  known  for  at  least 
fifteen  miles  around  the  Cross-roads  that  Tom  D'Willerby 

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was  going  to  build  a  new  honse,  and  that  it  was  going  to  be 
fitted  up  with  great  splendour  with  furniture  purchased  at 
Brownsboro. 

"  Store  carpetin'  on  every  floor  an'  paper  on  every  wall/' 
said  Dave  Hollister  to  Molly  when  he  went  home  after 
hearing  the  news.  "'An'  Sheby's  a-goin'  with  him  to 
choose  ''em.  He  says  he'll  bet  fifty  dollars  she  has  her 
notions  about  things,  an'  he's  a-goin  to  hev  'em  carried 
out,  fer  it's  all  fer  her,  an'  she's  the  one  to  be  pleased." 

It  was  not  many  weeks  before  the  rooms  were  so  near 
completion  that  the  journey  to  Brownsboro  was  made,  and 
it  was  upon  this  day  of  her  first  journeying  out  into  the 
world  that  Sheba  met  with  her  first  adventure.  She  re- 
membered long  afterwards  the  fresh  brightness  of  the  early 
morning  when  she  was  lifted  into  the  buggy  which  stood 
before  the  door,  while  Mornin  ran  to  and  fro  in  the  agree- 
able bustle  attendant  upon  forgetting  important  articles 
and  being  reminded  of  them  by  shocks.  When  Tom 
climbed  into  his  seat  and  they  drove  away,  the  store-porch 
seemed  quite  crowded  with  those  who  watched  their  tri« 
umphant  departure.  Sheba  looked  back  and  saw  Mornin 
showing  her  teeth  and  panting  for  breath,  while  Molly 
Hollister  waved  the  last  baby's  sun-bonnet,  holding  its 
denuded  owner  in  her  arms.  The  drive  was  a  long  one, 
but  the  travellers  enjoyed  it  from  first  to  last.  Tom  found 
his  companion's  conversation  quite  sufficient  entertainment 
to  while  away  the  time,  and  when  at  intervals  she  refreshed 
herself  from  Mornin's  basket  and  fell  asleep,  he  enjoyed 
driving  along  quietly  while  he  held  her  small,  peacefully 
relaxed  body  on  his  knee,  quite  as  much  as  another  man 
might  have  enjoyed  a  much  more  exciting  occupation. 

"  There's  an  amount  of  comfort  in  it,"  he  said,  reflec- 
tively, as  the  horse  plodded  along  on  the  shady  side  of  the 

ISO 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

road,  "  an  amount  of  comfort  that's  astonishing.  I  don't 
know,  but  I'd  like  to  have  her  come  to  a  standstill  just 
about  now  and  never  grow  any  older  or  bigger.  But  I 
thought  the  same  thing  three  years  ago,  that's  a  fact. 
And  when  she  gets  to  blooming  out  and  enjoying  her 
bits  of  girl  finery  there'll  be  pleasure  in  that  too,  plenty 
of  it." 

She  awakened  from  one  of  these  light  sleeps  just  as 
they  were  entering  Brownsboro,  and  her  delight  and  awe 
at  the  dimensions  and  business  aspect  of  the  place  pleased 
Tom  greatly,  and  was  the  cause  of  his  appearing  a  perfect 
mine  of  reliable  information  on  the  subject  of  large  towns 
and  the  habits  of  persons  residing  in  them. 

Brownsboro  contained  at  least  six  or  seven  hundred 
inhabitants,  and,  as  Court  was  being  held,  there  were  a 
good  many  horses  to  be  seen  tied  to  the  hitching-posts ; 
groups  of  men  were  sitting  before  the  stores  and  on  the 
sidewalks,  while  something  which  might  almost  have 
been  called  a  crowd  was  gathered  before  the  Court-house 
itself. 

Sheba  turned  her  attention  to  the  tavern  they  were 
approaching  with  a  view  to  spending  the  night,  and  her 
first  glance  alighted  upon  an  object  of  interest. 

"  There's  a  big  boy/'  she  said.     "  He  looks  tired." 

He  was  not  such  a  very  big  boy,  though  he  was  perhaps 
fourteen  years  old  and  tall  of  his  age.  He  stood  upon  the 
plank-walk  which  ran  at  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
leaned  against  the  porch  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
He  was  a  slender,  lithe  boy,  well  dressed  in  a  suit  of  fine 
white  linen.  He  had  a  dark,  spirited  face,  and  long- 
lashed  dark  eyes,  but,  notwithstanding  these  advantages, 
he  looked  far  from  amiable  as  he  stood  lounging  discon- 
tentedly and  knitting  his  brows  in  the  sun. 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

But  Sheba  admired  him  greatly  and  bent  forward  that 
she  might  see  him  better,  regarding  him  with  deep  interest. 

"  He's  a  pretty  boy,"  she  said,  softly,  "  I — I  like  him." 

Tom  scarcely  heard  her.  He  was  looking  at  the  boy 
himself,  and  his  face  wore  a  troubled  and  bewildered  ex- 
pression. His  gaze  was  so  steady  that  at  length  the  object 
of  it  felt  its  magnetic  influence  and  lifted  his  eyes.  That 
his  general  air  of  discontent  did  not  belie  him,  and  that 
he  was  by  no  means  an  amiable  boy,  was  at  once  proved. 
He  did  not  bear  the  scrutiny  patiently,  his  face  darkened 
still  more,  and  he  scowled  without  any  pretence  of  con- 
cealing the  fact. 

Tom  turned  away  uneasily. 

"  He'd  be  a  handsome  fellow  if  he  hadn't  such  an  evil 
look,"  he  said.  "  I  must  have  seen  him  before  ;  I  wonder 
who  he  is  ?  " 

There  were  many  strangers  in  the  house,  principally 
attenders  upon  the  Court  being  held.  Court  week  was  a 
busy  time  for  Brownsboro,  which  upon  such  occasions 
assumed  a  bustling  and  festive  air,  securing  its  friends 
from  less  important  quarters,  engaging  in  animated  dis- 
cussions of  the  cases  in  hand,  and  exhibiting  an  astonish- 
ing amount  of  legal  knowledge,  using  the  most  mystical, 
terms  in  ordinary  conversation,  and  secretly  feeling  its 
importance  a  good  deal. 

"  Sparkses"  was  the  name  of  the  establishment  at  which 
the  travellers  put  up,  and,  being  the  better  of  the  two 
taverns  in  which  the  town  rejoiced,  Sparkses  presented 
indeed  an  enlivening  spectacle.  It  was  a  large  frame 
house  with  the  usual  long  verandah  at  the  front,  upon 
which  verandah  there  were  always  to  be  seen  customers  in 
rocking-chairs,  their  boots  upon  the  balustrade,  their 
hands  clasped  easily  on  the  tops  of  their  heads.  During 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Court  week  these  customers  with  their  rocking-chairs  and 
boots  seemed  to  multiply  themselves  indefinitely,  and, 
bocoming  exhilarated  by  the  legal  business  transacted 
around  them,  bestirred  themselves  to  jocularity  and  argu- 
ment, thus  adding  to  the  liveliness  of  the  occasion. 

At  such  periods  Mr.  Sparkes  was  a  prominent  feature. 
Attired  in  an  easy  costume  seemingly  composed  princi- 
pally of  suspenders,  and  bearing  a  pipe  in  his  hand,  he 
permeated  the  atmosphere  with  a  business-like  air  which 
had  long  stamped  him  in  the  minds  of  his  rural  guests  as 
a  person  of  administrative  abilities  rarely  equalled  and 
not  at  all  to  be  surpassed. 

"  He's  everywhar  on  the  place,  is  Sparkes/'  had  been 
said  of  him.  "  He's  at  dinner,  'n  supper,  'n  breakfast,  'n 
out  on  the  porch,  'n  in  the  bar,  an'  kinder  sashiatin'  through 
the  whole  thing.  Thet  thar  tavern  wouldn't  be  nothin'  ef 
he  wasn't  thar." 

It  was  not  to  be  disputed  that  he  appeared  at  dinner  and 
breakfast  and  supper,  and  that  on  each  appearance  he  dis- 
posed of  a  meal  of  such  proportions  as  caused  his  counte- 
nance to  deepen  in  colour  and  assume  a  swelled  aspect, 
which  was,  no  doubt,  extremely  desirable  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  very  good  for  the  business,  though  it  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  lighten  the  labour  of  Mrs.  Sparkes  and 
her  daughters,  who  apparently  existed  without  any  more 
substantial  sustenance  than  the  pleasure  of  pouring  out  cups 
of  coffee  and  tea  and  glasses  of  milk,  and  cutting  slices  of 
pie,  of  which  they  possibly  partook  through  some  process 
of  absorption. 

To  the  care  of  Mrs.  Sparkes  Tom  confided  his  charge 
when,  a  short  time  after  their  arrival,  he  made  his  first  pil- 
grimage for  business  purposes. 

"  She's  been  on  the  road  all  day,"  he  said,  "  and  I  won't 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

take  her  out  till  to-morrow  ;  so  if  you  don't  mind,  I'll  leave 
her  with  you  until  I  come  back.  She'll  be  all  right  and 
happy,  won't  yon,  Sheba  ?  " 

Secretly  Sheba  felt  some  slight  doubt  of  this  ;  but  in  her 
desire  to  do  him  credit,  she  summed  up  all  her  courage 
and  heroically  answered  that  she  would,  and  so  was  borne 
off  to  the  dining-room,  where  two  girls  were  cutting  bread 
and  slicing  ham  for  supper.  They  were  Mrs.  Sparkes's 
daughters,  and  when  they  saw  the  child,  dropped  their 
knives  and  made  a  good-natured  rush  at  her,  for  which  she 
was  not  at  all  prepared. 

"  Now,  mother/'  they  cried,  "whar's  she  from,  'n  who 
does  she  b'long  to  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sparkes  cast  a  glance  at  her  charge,  which  Sheba 
caught  and  was  puzzled  by.  It  was  a  mysterious  glance, 
with  something  of  cautious  pity  in  it. 

"  Set  her  up  in  a  cheer,  Luce,"  she  said,  "  'n  give  her  a 
piece  of  cake.  Don't  ye  want  some,  honey  ?  " 

Sheba  regarded  her  with  uplifted  eyes  as  she  replied. 
The  glance  had  suggested  to  her  mind  that  Mrs.  Sparkes 
was  sorry  for  her,  and  she  was  anxious  to  know  why. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  no,  thank  you,  I  don't  want  any." 

She  sat  quite  still  when  they  put  her  into  a  chair,  but 
she  did  not  remove  her  eyes  from  Mrs.  Sparkes. 

"  Who  does  she  b'long  to,  anyhow  ?"  asked  Luce. 

Mrs.  Sparkes  lowered  her  voice  as  she  answered  : 

"  She  don't  b'long  to  nobody,  gals,"  she  said.  "  It's  thet 
little  critter  big  Tom  D'Willerby  from  Talbot's  Cross-roads 
took  to  raise." 

"  Ye  don't  say.  Pore  little  thing,"  exclaimed  the  girls. 
And  while  one  of  them  stooped  to  kiss  her  cheek,  the  other 
hurriedly  produced  a  large  red  apple,  which  she  laid  on  the 
long  table  before  her. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

But  Sheba  did  not  touch  it.  To  hear  that  she  belonged 
to  nobody  was  a  mysterious  shock  to  her.  There  had  never 
seemed  any  doubt  before  that  she  belonged  to  her  Uncle 
Tom,  but  Mrs.  Sparkes  had  quite  separated  her  from  him 
in  her  statement.  Suddenly  she  began  to  feel  a  little  tired, 
and  not  quite  so  happy  as  she  had  been.  But  she  sat  still 
and  listened,  rendered  rather  tremulous  by  the  fact  that 
the  speakers  seemed  so  sure  they  had  reason  to  pity  her. 

"  Ef  ever  thar  was  a  mystery,"  Mrs.  Sparkes  proceeded, 
"thet  thar  was  one  ;  though  Molly  Hollister  says  D'Will- 
erby  don't  like  it  talked  over.  Nobody  knowed  'em,  not 
even  their  names,  an'  nobody  knowed  whar  they  come  from. 
She  died,  'n  he  went  away — nobody  knowed  whar  ;  'n  the 
child  wasn't  two  days  old  when  he  done  it.  Ye  cayn't  tell 
me  thar  ain't  a  heap  at  the  back  o'  that.  They  say  D'Will- 
erby's  jest  give  himself  up  to  her  ever  since,  an'  'tain't  no 
wonder,  nuther,  for  she's  a'  out  'n  out  beauty,  ain't  she, 
now  ?  Just  look  at  her  eyes.  Why  don't  ye  eat  yer  apple, 
honey  ?" 

Sheba  turned  towards  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
porch.  A  bewildering  sense  of  desolation  had  fallen  upon 
her. 

"I  don't  want  it,"  she  said  ;  and  her  small  voice  had  a 
strange  sound  even  in  her  own  ears.  "  I  want  Uncle  Tom. 
Let  me  go  out  on  the  porch  and  see  if  he's  coming." 

She  saw  them  exchange  rapid  glances  and  was  troubled 
afresh  by  it. 

"  D'ye  reckin  she  understands  ?  "  the  younger  daughter 
said,  cautiously. 

"  Lordy,  no  !"  answered  the  mother  ;  "  we  ain't  said 
nothing  Ye  kin  go  ef  ye  want  to,  Sheba,"  she  added, 
cheerfully.  "  Thar's  a  little  rocking-cheer  that  ye  kin  set 
in.  Help  her  down,  Luce." 

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In  Connection  with 

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Bat  she  had  already  slipped  down  and  found  her  way  to 
the  door  opening  out  on  to  the  street.  The  porch  was  de- 
serted for  a  wonder,  the  reason  being  that  an  unusually 
interesting  case  was  being  argued  in  the  Court-house 
across  the  street,  where  groups  of  men  were  hanging  about 
the  doors.  The  rocking-chair  stood  in  a  corner,  but 
Sheba  did  not  sit  down  in  it.  She  went  to  the  steps  and 
stood  there,  looking  out  with  a  sense  of  pain  and  loneliness 
still  hanging  over  her  ;  and  at  last,  without  knowing  why, 
only  feeling  that  they  had  a  dreary  sound  and  contained 
a  mystery  which  somehow  troubled  her,  she  began  to  say 
over  softly  the  words  the  woman  had  used. 

"  She  died  and  he  went  away,  nobody  knows  where. 
She  died  and  he  went  away,  nobody  knows  where." 

Why  those  words  should  have  clung  to  her  and  made 
her  feel  for  the  moment  desolate  and  helpless,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say,  but  as  she  repeated  them  half  uncon- 
sciously, the  figures  of  the  woman  who  had  died  and  the 
man  who  had  wandered  so  far  away  alone,  that  he  seemed 
to  have  wandered  out  of  life  itself,  cast  heavy  shadows  on 
her  childish  heart. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  whispered,  "that  it  was  not  Uncle 
Tom  that  went  away."  And  she  looked  up  the  street  with 
an  anxious  sigh. 

Just  at  this  moment  she  became  conscious  that  she  was 
not  alone.  In  bending  forward  that  she  might  see  the 
better,  she  caught  sight  of  someone  leaning  against  the 
balustrades  which  had  before  concealed  him — the  boy,  in 
short,  who  was  standing  just  as  he  had  stood  when  they 
drove  up,  and  who  looked  as  handsome  in  a  darkling  way 
as  human  boy  could  look. 

For  a  few  seconds  the  child  regarded  him  with  bated 
breath.  The  boys  she  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  were 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

not  of  this  type,  and  were  more  remarkable  for  gifts  less 
ornamental  than  beauty.  -This  boy,  with  his  graceful  limbs 
and  haughtily  carried  head,  filled  her  with  awe  and  admi- 
ration. She  admired  him  so  much,  that,  though  her  first 
impulse  was  to  run  away,  she  did  not  obey  it,  and  almost 
immediately  he  glanced  up  and  saw  her  When  this 
occurred,  she  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  his  gloom 
did  not  lead  him  to  treat  her  unkindly,  indeed,  he  was 
amiable  enough  to  address  her  with  an  air  of  one  relenting 
and  condescending  somewhat  to  her  youth. 

'*  Didn't  yon  know  I  was  here  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No/'  Sheba  answered,  timidly. 

"  Whom  are  you  looking  for  ?  " 

"  For  my  Uncle  Tom." 

lie  glanced  across  the  street,  still  keeping  his  hands  in 
his  pockets  and  preserving  his  easy  attitude. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  over  there/'  he  suggested. 

( '  Perhaps  he  is,"  she  replied,  and  added,  shyly,  "  Are 
you  waiting  for  anyone  ?  " 

He  frowned  so  darkly  at  first,  that  she  was  quite  alarmed 
and  wished  that  she  had  run  away  as  she  had  at  first  in- 
tended ;  but  he  answered,  after  a  pause  : 

'*  No — yes  ; "  he  said,  "  yes — Fm  waiting  for  my  father/' 

He  did  not  even  speak  as  the  boys  at  the  Cross-roads 
spoke.  His  voice  had  a  clear,  soft  ring,  and  his  mode  of 
pronunciation  was  one  Tom  had  spent  much  time  in  en- 
deavouring to  impress  upon  herself  as  being  more  de- 
sirable than  that  she  had  heard  most  commonly  used 
around  her.  Up  to  this  time  she  had  frequently  wondered 
why  she  must  speak  differently  from  Mornin  and  Molly 
Hollister,  but  now  she  suddenly  began  to  appreciate  the 
wisdom  of  his  course,  It  was  very  much  nicer  to  speak  as 
the  boy  spoke. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  haven't  any  father,"  she  ventured,  ' '  or  any  mother. 
That's  queer,  isn't  it  ??•  And  as  she  said  it,  Mrs.  Sparkes's 
words  rushed  into  her  mind  again,  and  she  looked  up  the 
street  towards  the  sunset  and  fell  into  a  momentary  reverie, 
whispering  them  to  herself. 

"  What's  that  you  are  saying  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  rather  uncertain  and  troubled 
expression. 

"It  was  only  what  they  said  in  there/'  she  replied, 
pointing  towards  the  dining-room. 

"  What  did  they  say  ?" 

She  repeated  the  words  slowly,  regarding  him  fixedly, 
because  she  wondered  if  they  would  have  any  effect  upon 
him. 

"  She  died  and  he  went  away,  nobody  knows  where. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  admitted,  staring  at  her  with  his 
handsome,  long-lashed  eyes.  "  Lots  of  people  die  and  go 
away."  Then,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he  dropped  his 
eyes,  he  added  i 

"My  mother  died  two  years  ago." 

"  Did  she  ?"  answered  Sheba,  wondering  why  he  looked 
so  gloomy  again  all  at  once.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  had 
any  mother,  but  I  have  Uncle  Tom." 

He  stared  at  her  again,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  few 
minutes.  This  he  broke  by  asking  a  question. 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  he  demanded. 

"De  Willoughby,"  she  replied,  "but  I'm  called  Sheba." 

"Why,  that's  my  name,"  he  said,  surprisedly.  "My 
name  is  De  Willoughby.  I  —  Hallo,  Neb " 

This  last  in  a  tone  of  proprietorship  to  a  negro  servant, 
who  was  advancing  towards  them  from  a  side-door 
who.  burned  up  with  rather  a  frightened  manner, 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Ye'd  best  get  ready  ter  start  right  away,  Mars  Ralph/' 
he  said.  "  He's  wake  at  las',  an'  der's  de  debbil  to  pay, 
a-cussin'  an'  roarin'  an'  wantin'  opium  ;  an'  he  wants  to 
know  whar  ye  bin  an'  what  ye  mean,  an'  ses  de  bosses  mus' 
be  at  de  do'  in  ten  minits.  Oh,  de  cunnel  he's  in  de 
wustest  kin'  o'  humour,  dar's  no  doin'  nuffin  right  for 
him." 

"  Tell  him  to  go  to  h "  burst  forth  the  lad,  flying 

into  a  rage  and  looking  so  wickedly  passionate  in  a  boyish 
way  that  Sheba  was  frightened  again.  "Tell  him  I  won't 
go  until  I'm  ready ;  I've  been  dragged  round  till  I'm  sick 
of  it,  and " 

In  the  midst  of  his  tempest  he  checked  himself,  turned 
about  and  walked  suddenly  into  the  house,  the  negro  fol- 
lowing him  in  evident  trepidation. 

His  departure  was  so  sudden  that  Sheba  fancied  he 
would  return  and  say  something  more  to  her.  Angry  as 
he  looked,  she  wished  very  much  that  he  would,  and  so 
stood  waiting  wistfully. 

But  she  was  doomed  to  disappointment.  In  a  few 
minutes  the  negro  brought  to  the  front  three  horses,  and 
almost  immediately  there  appeared  at  the  door  a  tall, 
handsome  man,  who  made  his  way  to  the  finest  horse  and 
mounted  it  with  a  dashing  vault  into  the  saddle. 

He  had  a  dark  aquiline  face  like  the  boy's,  and  wore  a 
great  sweeping  mustache  which  hid  his  mouth.  The  boy 
followed,  looking  wonderfully  like  him,  as  he  sprang  into 
his  own  saddle  with  the  same  dare-devil  vault., 

No  one  spoke  a  word,  and  he  did  not  even  look  at  Sheba, 
though  she  watched  him  with  admiring  and  longing  eyes. 
As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  in  their  seats  the  horses,  which 
were  fine  creatures,  needing  neither  whip  nor  spur,  sprang 
forward  with  a  light,  easy  movement,  and  so  cantered  down 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

the  street  towards  the  high  road  which  stretched  itself 
over  a  low  hill  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away. 

Sheba  laid  her  cheek  against  the  wooden  pillar  and 
looked  after  them  with  a  return  of  the  sense  of  loneliness 
she  had  felt  before. 

"He  went  away,"  she  whispered,  "nobody  knows 
where — nobody  knows  where." 

She  felt  Tom's  hand  laid  on  her  shoulder  as  she  said  the 
words,  and  turned  her  face  upward  with  a  consciousness 
of  relief,  knowing  she  would  not  be  lonely  any  longer. 

"  Have  I  been  gone  long  ?"  he  asked.  "  Where's  Mrs. 
Sparkes?" 

"She's  in  there,"  Sheba  answered,  eagerly,  "and  I've 
been  talking  to  the  boy." 

"  To  the  boy  ?"  he  repeated.     "  What  boy  ?" 

"To  the  one  we  saw,"  she  replied,  holding  his  hand 
and  feeling  her  cheeks  flush  with  the  excitement  of  relat- 
ing her  adventure.  "The  nice  boy.  His  name  is  like 
mine — and  his  mother  died.  He  said  it  was  De  Wil- 
loughby, and  it  is  like  mine.  He  has  gone  away  with  his 
father.  See  them  riding." 

He  dropped  her  hand  and,  taking  a  step  forward,  stood 
watching  the  receding  travellers.  He  watched  them  until 
they  reached  the  rising  ground.  The  boy  had  fallen  a  few 
yards  behind.  Presently  the  others  passed  the  top  of  the 
hill,  and,  as  they  did  so,  he  turned  in  his  saddle  as  if  he 
had  suddenly  remembered  something,  and  glanced  back  at 
the  tavern  porch. 

"  He  is  looking  for  me,"  cried  Sheba,  and  ran  out  into 
the  brightness  of  the  setting  sun,  happy  because  he  had 
not  quite  forgotten  her. 

He  saw  her,  waved  his  hand  with  a  careless,  boyish 
gesture  and  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 

140 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Tom  sat  down  suddenly  on  the  porch -step.  When 
Sheba  turned  to  him  he  was  pale  and  his  forehead  was 
damp  with  sweat.  He  spoke  aloud,  but  to  himself,  not  to 
her. 

"Good  Lord,"  he  said,  "it's  De  Courcy  and — and  the 
boy.  That  was  why  I  knew  his  face." 

When  they  went  in  to  supper  later  on,  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  laughing  and  talking  going  on  down  the  long  table. 
Mr.  Sparkes  was  finishing  a  story  as  they  entered,  and  he 
was  finishing  it  in  a  loud  voice. 

"They're  pretty  well  known/'  he  said  ;  "an'  the  Col- 
onel's the  worst  o'  the  lot.  The  nigger  told  me  thar'd 
been  a  reg'lar  flare-up  at  the  Springs.  Thar  was  a  ball  an' 
he  got  on  a  tear  an'  got  away  from  'em  an'  bust  right  into 
the  ball-room  an'  played  Hail  Columby.  He's  a  pop'lar 
man  among  the  ladies,  is  the  Colonel,  but  a  mixtry  of 
whiskey  an'  opium  is  apt  to  spile  his  manners.  Nigger 
says  he's  the  drunkest  man  when  he  is  drunk  that  the 
Lord  ever  let  live.  Ye  cayn't  do  nothin'  with  him.  The 
boy  was  thar,  an'  they  say  'twas  a  sight  ter  see  him.  He's 
his  daddy's  son,  an'  a  bigger  young  devil  never  lived,  they 
tell  me.  He's  not  got  to  the  whiskey  an'  opium  yet,  an' 
he  jes'  takes  his'n  out  in  pride  an'  temper.  Nigger  said  he 
jest  raved  an'  tore  that  night — went  into  the  Colonel's 
room  an'  cussed  an'  dashed  round  like  he  was  gone  mad. 
Kinder  shamed,  I  reckin.  But  Lord,  he'll  be  at  it  himself 
in  ten  years  from  now.  It's  in  the  blood." 

"  Who's  that  you're  talking  of  ?  "  asked  Tom  from  his 
end  of  the  table.  He  had  not  recovered  his  colour  yet  and 
looked  pale  as  he  put  the  question. 

"  Colonel  De  Willoughby  of  Delisleville,"  answered  Mr. 
Sparkes.  "  Any  kin  o'  your'n  ?  Name's  sorter  like.  He 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

jest  left  here  this  evenin'  with  his  boy  an'  nigger.  They've 
ben  to  Whitebriar,  an'  they're  on  their  way  home/' 

"  I  saw  them  ride  over  the  hill,"  said  Tom.  "  I  thought 
I  wasn't  mistaken  in  the  man.  Fve  seen  him  before." 

But  he  made  a  very  poor  supper,  and  a  shadow  seemed 
to  have^  fallen  upon  his  cheery  mood  of  the  morning. 
Sheba  recognised  this  and  knew,  too,  that  her  new  friend 
and  his  father  were  in  some  vague  way  responsible  for  it, 
and  the  knowledge  oppressed  her  so  that  when  they  sat  out 
upon  the  porch  together  after  the  meal  was  over,  she  in  her 
accustomed  place  on  his  knee,  she  grew  sad  under  it  her- 
self and,  instead  of  talking  as  usual,  leaned  her  small  head 
against  his  coat  and  watched  the  few  stars  whose  brightness 
the  moon  had  not  shut  out. 

She  went  to  bed  early,  but  did  not  sleep  well,  dreaming 
dreary  dreams  of  watching  the  travellers  riding  away  to- 
wards the  sunset,  and  of  hearing  the  woman  talk  again. 
One  of  the  talkers  seemed  at  last  to  waken  her  with  her 
voice,  and  she  sat  up  in  bed  suddenly  and  found  that  it 
was  Tom,  who  had  roused  her  by  speaking  to  himself  in  a 
low  tone  as  he  stood  in  a  flood  of  moonlight  before  the 
window. 

"  She  died/'  he  was  saying  ;  "she  died." 

Sheba  burst  into  a  little  sob,  stretching  out  her  hands  to 
him  without  comprehending  her  own  emotion. 

"And  he  went  away,"  she  cried,  "nobody  knows  where 
— nobody  knows  where — "  And  even  when  he  came  to 
her  hurriedly  and  sat  down  on  the  bedside,  soothing  her 
and  taking  her  in  his  arms  to  sink  back  into  slumber,  she 
sobbed  drearily  two  or  three  times,  though,  once  in  his 
clasp,  she  felt,  as  she  had  always  done,  the  full  sense  of 
comfort,  safety,  and  rest. 


143 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE  New  England  town  of  "Willowfield  was  a  place  of 
great  importance.  Its  importance — religious,  intellectual, 
and  social — was  its  strong  point.  It  took  the  liberty  of  as- 
serting this  with  unflinching  dignity.  Other  towns  might 
endeavour  to  struggle  to  the  front,  and,  indeed,  did  so  en- 
deavour, but  Willowfield  calmly  held  its  place  and  remained 
unmoved.  Its  place  always  had  been  at  the  front  from  the 
first,  and  there  it  took  its  stand.  It  had,  perhaps,  been 
hinted  that  its  sole  title  to  this  position  lay  in  its  own  stately 
assumption:  but  this,  it  may  be  argued,  was  sheer  envy  and 
entirely  unworthy  of  notice. 

"  Willowfield  is  not  very  large  or  very  rich,"  its  leading 
old  lady  said,  "  but  it  is  important  and  has  always  been  con- 
sidered so." 

There  was  society  in  Willowfield,  society  which  had  taken 
up  its  abiding-place  in  three  or  four  streets  and  confined  it- 
self to  developing  its  importance  in  half  a  dozen  families — 
old  families.  They  were  always  spoken  of  as  the  "  old  fam- 
ilies," and,  to  be  a  member  of  one  of  them,  even  a  second  or 
third  cousin  of  weak  mind  and  feeble  understanding,  was 
to  be  enclosed  within  the  magic  circle  outside  of  which  was 
darkness,  wailing,  and  gnashing  of  teeth.  There  were  the 
Stornaways,  who  had  owned  the  button  factory  for  nearly  a 
generation  and  a  half — which  was  a  long  time;  the  Down- 
ings,  who  had  kept  the  feed-store  for  quite  thirty  years, 
and  the  Burtons,  who  had  been  doctors  for  almost  as  long, 

143 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

not  to  mention  the  Larkins,  who  had  actually  founded  the 
Willowfield  Times,  and  'kept  it  going,  which  ha.d  scarcely 
been  expected  of  them  at  the  outset. 

Their  moral,  mental,  and  social  gifts  notwithstanding, 
there  was  nothing  connected  with  the  Stornaways,  the  Down- 
ings,  the  Burtons,  and  the  Larkins  of  such  importance  as 
their  antiquity.  The  uninformed  outsider,  on  hearing  it 
descanted  upon,  might  naturally  have  been  betrayed  into  the 
momentary  weakness  of  expecting  to  see  Mr.  Downing  moul- 
der away,  and  little  old  Doctor  Burton  crumble  into  dust. 

"  They  belong/'  it  was  said,  with  the  temperateness  of 
true  dignity,  "  to  our  old  families,  and  that  is  something, 
you  know,  even  in  America." 

"It  has  struck  me,"  an  observing  male  visitor  once  re- 
marked, "  that  there  are  a  good  many  women  in  Willow- 
field,  and  that  altogether  it  has  a  feminine  tone." 

It  was  certainly  true  that  among  the  Stornaways,  the 
Downings,  the  Burtons,  and  the  Larkins,  the  prevailing  tone 
was  feminine;  and  as  the  Stornaways,  the  Downings,  the 
Burtons,  and  the  Larkins  comprised  Willowfield  society,  and 
without  its  society  Willowfield  lost  its  significance,  the  ob- 
serving male  visitor  may  not  have  been  far  wrong.  If  mis- 
takes were  made  in  Willowfield  society,  they  were  always 
made  by  the  masculine  members  of  it.  It  was  Mr.  Stornaway 
who  had  at  one  time  been  betrayed  into  the  blunder  of  in- 
viting to  a  dinner-party  at  his  house  a  rather  clever  young 
book-keeper  in  his  employ,  and  it  was  Doctor  Burton  who 
had  wandered  still  more  glaringly  from  the  path  of  rectitude 
by  taking  a  weak,  if  amiable,  interest  in  a  little  music  teacher 
with  a  sweet,  tender  voice,  even  going  so  far  as  to  request 
his  family  to  call  upon  her  and  ask  her  to  take  tea  with 
them.  It  was  Mr.  Downing,  who,  when  this  last  incident 

144 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

occurred  and  created  some  sensation,  had  had  the  temerity 
to  intimate  that  he  thought  the  Doctor  was  entirely  in  the 
right;  though,  to  be  sure,  he  had  afterwards  been  led  to  fal- 
ter in  this  opinion  and  subside  into  craven  silence,  being  a 
little  gentleman  of  timorous  and  yielding  nature,  and  rather 
overborne  by  a  large  and  powerful  feminine  majority  in  his 
own  household.  Mr.  Larkin  was,  it  is  to  be  regretted,  the 
worst  of  the  recreant  party,  being  younger  and  more  unman- 
ageable, having  not  only  introduced  to  public  notice  certain 
insignificant  though  somewhat  talented  persons  in  the  shape 
of  young  men  and  women  who  talked  well,  or  sang  well, 
or  wielded  lively  pens,  but  had  gone  to  the  length  of  standing 
by  them  unflinchingly,  demanding  civility  for  them  at  the 
hands  of  his  own  family  of  women  in  such  a  manner  as 
struck  a  deadly  blow  at  the  very  foundations  of  the  social 
structure.  But  Mr.  Larkin — he  was  known  as  Jack  Larkin 
to  an  astonishing  number  of  people — was  a  bold  man  by 
nature  and  given  to  deeds  of  daring,  from  the  fatal  conse- 
quences of  which  nothing  but  the  fact  that  he  was  a  member 
of  one  of  the  "  old  families  "  could  have  saved  him.  As  he 
was  a  part — and  quite  a  large  part — of  one  of  these  venerable 
households,  and,  moreover,  knew  not  the  fear  of  man — or 
woman — his  failings  could  be  referred  to  as  "  eccentricities." 

"  Mr.  Larkin,"  Mrs.  Stornaway  frequently  observed,  with 
long-suffering  patience,  "is  talented  but  eccentric.  You 
are  never  quite  sure  what  he  will  do  next." 

Mrs.  Stornaway  was  the  head  and  front  of  all  Willow- 
field's  social  efforts,  and  represented  the  button  factory  with 
a  lofty  grace  and  unbending  dignity  of  demeanour  which 
were  the  admiration  and  envy  of  all  aspirants  to  social  fame. 
It  was  said  that  Mrs.  Stornaway  had  been  a  beauty  in  her 
youth,  and  there  were  those  who  placed  confidence  in  the 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

rumour.  Mrs.  Stornaway  did  so  herself,  and  it  had  been 
intimated  that  it  was  this  excellent  lady  who  had  vouched 
for  the  truth  of  the  statement  in  the  first  instance;  but  this 
report  having  been  traced  to  a  pert  young  relative  who  de- 
tested and  derided  her,  might  have  had  its  origin  in  youthful 
disrespect  and  malice. 

At  present  Mrs,  Stornaway  was  a  large  blonde  woman 
whose  blondness  was  not  fairness,  and  whose  size  was  not 
roundness.  She  was  the  leader  of  all  religious  and  charitable 
movements,  presiding  with  great  vigour  over  church  mat- 
ters, fairs,  concerts,  and  sewing  societies.  The  minister  oi 
her  church  submitted  himself  to  her  advice  and  guidance. 
All  the  modest  members  of  the  choir  quailed  and  quavered 
before  her,  while  even  the  bold  ones,  meeting  her  eye  when 
engaged  in  worldly  conversation  between  their  musical  ef- 
forts, momentarily  lost  their  interest  and  involuntarily 
straightened  themselves. 

Towards  her  family  Mrs.  Stornaway  performed  her  duty 
with  unflinching  virtue.  She  had  married  her  six  daughters 
in  a  manner  at  once  creditable  to  herself,  themselves,  and 
Willowfield.  Five  of  them  had  been  rather  ordinary,  de- 
pressed-looking girls,  who,  perhaps,  were  not  sorry  to  obtain 
their  freedom.  The  sixth  had  narrowly  escaped  being  dow- 
ered with  all  the  charms  said  to  have  adorned  Mrs.  Storn- 
away's  own  youth. 

"  Agnes  is  very  like  what  I  was  at  her  age,"  said  her 
mother,  with  dignity;  and  perhaps  she  was,  though  no  one 
had  been  able  to  trace  any  resemblance  which  had  defied  the 
ravages  of  time. 

Agnes  had  made  a  marriage  which  in  some  points  was 
better  than  those  of  her  sisters.  She  had  married  a  brilliant 
,  while  the  other  five  had  been  obliged  to  make  the  best 
HO 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

of  things  as  far  as  brilliancy  was  concerned.  People  always 
said  of  John  Baird  that  he  was  a  brilliant  man  and  that 
a  great  career  lay  before  him.  He  was  rather  remarkable  for 
a  curious  subtle  distinction  of  physical  good  looks.  He  was 
not  of  the  common.,  straight-featured,  personable  type.  It 
had  been  said  by  the  artistic  analyst  of  form  and  line  that 
his  aspect  did  not  belong  to  his  period,  that  indeed  his 
emotional,  spirited  face,  with  its  look  of  sensitiveness  and 
race,  was  of  the  type  once  connected  with  fine  old  steel 
engravings  of  young  poets  .not  quite  beyond  the  days  of 
powdered  hair  and  frilled  shirt-bosoms. 

"  It  is  absurd  that  he  should  have  been  born  in  America 
and  in  these  days,"  a  brilliant  person  had  declared.  "  He 
always  brings  to  my  mind  the  portraits  in  delightful  old 
annuals,  '  So-and-so — at  twenty-five.' '' 

His  supple  ease  of  movement  and  graceful  length  of  limb 
gave  him  an  air  of  youth.  He  was  one  of  the  creatures  to 
whom  the  passage  of  years  would  mean  but  little,  but  added 
charm  and  adaptability.  His  eyes  were  singularly  living 
things — the  eyes  that  almost  unconsciously  entreat  and 
whose  entreaty  touches  one;  the  fine,  irregular  outline  of 
his  profile  was  the  absolute  expression  of  the  emotional  at 
war  with  itself,  the  passionate,  the  tender,  the  sensitive,  and 
complex.  The  effect  of  these  things  was  almost  the  effect 
of  peculiar  physical  beauty,  and  with  this  he  combined  the 
allurements  of  a  compelling  voice  and  an  enviable  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things.  He  never  lost  a  thought  through  the ' 
inability  to  utter  it.  When  he  had  left  college,  he  had  left 
burdened  with  honours  and  had  borne  with  him  the  enthu- 
siastic admiration  of  his  fellow-students.  He  had  earned 
and  worn  his  laurels  with  an  ease  and  grace  which  would 
be  remembered  through  years  to  come, 

U7 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

"  It's  something,"  it  was  once  said,  "  to  have  known  a 
fellow  to  whom  things  came  so  easily." 

When  he  had  entered  the  ministry.,  there  had  been  some 
wonder  expressed  among  the  men  who  had  known  him  best, 
but  when  he  preached  his  first  sermon  at  Willowfield,  where 
there  was  a  very  desirable  church  indeed,  with  whose  minis- 
ter Mrs.  Storna\vay  had  become  dissatisfied,  and  who  in  con- 
sequence was  to  be  civilly  removed,  the  golden  apple  fell 
at  once  into  his  hand. 

Before  he  had  arrived  he  had  been  spoken  of  rather  slight- 
ingly as  "  the  young  man,"  but  when  he  rose  in  the  pulpit 
on  the  eventful  Sunday  morning,  such  a  thrill  ran  through 
the  congregation  as  had  not  stirred  it  at  its  devotions  for 
many  a  summer  day.  Mrs.  Stornaway  mentally  decided  for 
him  upon  the  spot. 

"  He  is  of  one  of  our  oldest  families,"  she  said.  "  This 
is  what  Willowfield  wants." 

He  dined  with  the  Stornaways  that  day,  and  when  he  en- 
tered the  parlour  the  first  figure  his  eyes  fell  upon  was  that 
of  Agnes  Stornaway,  dressed  in  white  muslin,  with  white 
roses  in  her  belt.  She  was  a  tall  girl,  with  a  willowy  figure 
and  a  colourless  fairness  of  skin,  but  when  her  mother  called 
her  to  her  side  and  Eaird  touched  her  hand,  she  blushed  in 
such  a  manner  that  Mrs.  Stornaway  was  a  little  astonished. 
Scarcely  a  year  afterward  she  became  Mrs.  Baird,  and  people 
said  she  was  a  very  fortunate  girl,  which  was  possibly  true. 

Her  husband  did  not  share  the  fate  of  most  ministers  who 
had  presided  over  Mrs.  Storna way's  church.  His  power  over 
his  congregation  increased  every  year.  His  name  began  to 
be  known  in  the.  world  of  literature;  he  was  called  upon 
to  deliver  in  important  places  the  lectures  he  had  delivered 
to  his  Willowfield  audiences,  and  the  result  was  one  startling 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

triumph  after  another.  There  was  every  indication  of  the 
fact  that  a  career  was  already  marked  out  for  him. 

Willowfield  looked  forward  with  trepidation  to  the  time 
when  the  great  world  which  stood  ready  to  give  him  fame 
would  absorb  him  altogether,  but  in  the  meantime  it  exerted 
all  its  power  of  fascination,  and  was  so  far  successful  that 
the  Reverend  John  Baird  felt  that  his  lines  had  indeed  fallen 
in  pleasant  places. 

But  after  the  birth  of  her  little  daughter  his  wife  was  not 
strong,  and  was  so  long  in  regaining  vitality  that  in  the 
child's  second  year  she  was  ordered  abroad  by  the  physician. 
At  this  time  Baird's  engagements  were  such  that  he  could 
not  accompany  her,  and  accordingly  he  remained  in  America. 
The  career  was  just  opening  up  its  charmed  vistas  to  him; 
his  literary  efforts  were  winning  laurels;  he  was  called  upon 
to  lecture  in  Boston  and  New  York,  and  he  never  rose  before 
an  audience  without  at  once  awakening  an  enthusiasm. 

Mrs.  Baird  went  to  the  south  of  France  with  her  child 
and  nurse  and  a  party  of  friends,  and  remained  there  for 
a  year.  At  the  termination  of  that  time,  just  as  she  thought 
of  returning  home,  she  was  taken  seriously  ill.  Her  husband 
was  sent  for  and  went  at  once  to  join  her.  In  a  few  months 
she  had  died  of  rapid  decline.  She  had  been  a  delicate 
girl,  and  a  far-off  taint  of  consumption  in  her  family  blood 
had  reasserted  itself.  But  though  Mrs.  Stornaway  bewailed 
her  with  diffuse  and  loud  pathos  and  for  a  year  swathed  her 
opulence  of  form  in  deepest  folds  and  draperies  of  crape, 
the  quiet  fairness  and  slightness  which  for  some  five  and 
twenty  years  had  been  known  as  Agnes  Stornaway,  had  been 
a  personality  not  likely  to  be  a  marked  and  long-lingering 
memory. 

The  child  was  placed  with  a  motherly  friend  in  Paris. 

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For  a  month  after  his  .wife's  death  Baird  had  been  fever- 
ishly, miserably  eager  to  return  to  America.  Those  about 
him  felt  that  the  blow  which  had  fallen  upon  him  might 
affect  his  health  seriously.  He  seemed  possessed  by  a  des- 
perate, morbid  desire  to  leave  the  scene  of  the  calamity  be- 
hind him.  He  was  restless  and  feverish  in  his  anxiety,  and 
scarcely  able  to  endure  the  delay  which  the  arrangement 
of  his  affairs  made  necessary.  He  had  not  been  well  when 
he  had  left  Willowfield,  and  during  his  watching  by  his  wife's 
bedside  he  had  grown  thin  and  restless-eyed. 

"  I  want  to  get  home.  I  must  get  home,"  he  would  ex- 
claim, as  if  involuntarily.  His  entire  physical  and  mental 
condition  were  strained  and  unnatural.  His  wife's  doctor, 
who  had  become  his  own  doctor  as  his  health  deteriorated, 
was  not  surprised,  on  arriving  one  day,  to  find  him  prostrated 
with  nervous  fever.  He  was  ill  for  months,  and  he  rose  from 
his  sick-bed  a  depressed  shadow  of  his  former  self  and 
quite  unable  to  think  of  returning  to  his  charge,  even  if  his 
old  desire  had  not  utterly  left  him  with  his  fever.  He  was 
absent  from  Willowfield  for  two  years,  and  when  at  length 
he  turned  his  face  homeward,  it  was  with  no  eagerness.  He 
had  passed  through  one  of  those  phases  which  change  a 
man's  life  and  being.  If  he  had  been  a  rich  man  he  would 
have  remained  away  and  would  have  lived  in  London,  seeing 
much  of  the  chief  continental  cities.  As  it  was,  he  must 
at  least  temporarily  return  to  Willowfield  and  take  with  him 
his  little  girl. 

On  the  day  distinguished  by  his  return  to  his  people,  much 
subdued  excitement  prevailed  in  Willowfield.  During  the 
whole  of  the  previous  week  Mrs.  Stornaway's  carriage  had 
paid  daily  visits  to  the  down-town  stores.  There  was  a  flour- 
ishing New  England  thrift  among  the  Stornaways,  the  Lar- 

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kins,  the  Downings,  and  the  Burtons,  which  did  not  allow 
of  their  delegating  the  ordering  of  their  households  to  as- 
sistants. Most  of  them  were  rigorous  housewives,  keen 
at  a  bargain  and  sharp  of  tongue  when  need  be,  and  there 
was  rarely  any  danger  of  their  getting  less  than  their  money's 
worth. 

To  celebrate  his  arrival,  Mrs.  Stornaway  was  to  give  an 
evening  party  which  was  to  combine  congratulatory  welcome 
with  a  touch  of  condolence  for  the  past  and  assurance  for 
the  future. 

"  We  must  let  him  see,"  said  Mrs.  Stornaway,  "  that  Wil- 
lowfield  has  its  attractions." 

Its  attractions  did  not  present  themselves  as  vividly  to 
John  Baird  as  might  have  been  hoped,  when  he  descended 
from  the  train  at  the  depot.  He  had  spent  two  or  three 
days  in  Boston  with  a  view  to  taking  his  change  gradually, 
but  he  found  himself  not  as  fully  prepared  for  Willowfield 
as  he  could  have  wished.  He  was  not  entirely  prepared  for 
Mrs.  Stornaway,  who  hurried  towards  them  with  exultation 
on  her  large,  stupid  face,  and,  after  effusive  embraces,  bus- 
tled with  them  towards  an  elderly  woman  who  had  evi- 
dently accompanied  her. 

"  See,  here's  Miss  Amory  Starkweather!  "  she  exclaimed. 
"  She  came  with  me  to  meet  you.  Just  see  how  Annie's 
grown,  Miss  Amory." 

Miss  Amory  was  a  thin  woman  with  a  strong-featured 
countenance  and  deep-set,  observing  eyes.  They  were  eyes 
whose  expression  suggested  that  they  had  made  many  pain- 
ful discoveries  in  the  course  of  their  owner's  life. 

John  Baird  rather  lighted  up  for  a  moment  when  he 
caught  sight  of  her. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Amory,"  he  said. 

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"  Thank  you,"  she  answered.  "  I  hope  you  are  as  well 
as  you  look." 

"  We're  so  delighted,"  Mrs.  Stornaway  announced,  as  if 
to  the  bystanders.  "  Everybody  in  Willowfield  is  so  de- 
lighted to  have  you  back  again.  The  church  has  not  seemed 
the  same  place.  The  man  who  took  your  place — Mr.  Jeramy, 
you  know — you  haven't  any  idea  how  unpopular " 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Baird,  "I  must  speak  to  Latimer. 
Where  is  Latimer,  Annie  ?  " 

"  Who  is  Latimer?  "  asked  Mrs.  Stornaway. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Baird  again,  and  turning  back  towards 
the  platform,  he  disappeared  among  the  crowd  with  Annie, 
who  had  clung  to  his  hand. 

"Why,  he's  gone!"  proclaimed  Mrs.  Stornaway.  "But 
where's  he  gone?  Why  didn't  he  stay?  Who's  Latimer?  " 

"  Latimer!  "  Miss  Amory  echoed,  "  you  ought  to  know 
him.  His  family  lives  in  Willowfield.  He  is  the  man  who 
was  coming  home  to  take  charge  of  the  little  church  at  Jan- 
way's  Mills.  He  has  evidently  crossed  the  Atlantic  with 
then;" 

"  Well,  now,  I  declare,"  proclaimed  Mrs.  Stornaway.  "  It 
must  be  the  man  who  took  his  sister  to  Europe.  It  was  a 
kind  of  absurd  thing.  She  died  away — the  girl  did,  and 
people  wondered  why  he  did  not  come  back  and  how  he 
lived.  Why,  yes,  that  must  be  the  man."  And  she  turned 
to  look  about  for  him. 

Miss  Amory  Starkweather  made  a  slight  movement. 

"  Don't  look,"  she  said.  "  He  might  not  like  to  be  stared 
at." 

"  They're  quite  common  people,"  commented  Mrs.  Storn- 
away, still  staring.  "  They  live  in  a  little  house  in  a  side 
street.  They  had  very  silly  ideas  about  the  girl.  They 
thought  she  was  a  genius  and  sent  her  to  the  School  of  Art 

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in  Boston,  but  it  wasn't  long  before  her  health  failed  her. 
Ah!  I  guess  that  must  be  the  man  talking  to  Mr.  Baird  and 
Annie.  He  looks  as  if  he  would  go  oft'  in  a  consumption/' 

He  was  a  tall,  hollow-chested  man,  with  a  dark,  sallow 
face  and  an  ungainly  figure.  There  were  suggestions  of  both 
ill-health  and  wretchedness  in  his  appearance,  and  his  man- 
ner was  awkward  and  embarrassed.  Two  human  beings  more 
utterly  unlike  each  other  than  himself  and  the  man  who  held 
his  hand  could  not  possibly  have  been  found.  It  was  Baird 
who  held  his  hand,  not  he  Baird's,  and  it  was  Baird  who 
seemed  to  speak  while  he  listened,  while  with  his  free  hand 
he  touched  the  hair  of  the  child  Annie. 

"  Well,"  remarked  Mrs.  Stornaway,  "  Mr.  Baird  seems  to 
have  taken  a  fancy  to  him.  I  don't  think  he's  attractive 
myself.  Are  they  going  to  talk  to  him  all  day?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Amory,  "  he  is  going  now." 

He  was  going.  Baird  had  released  his  hand  and  he  was 
looking  in  a  gloomy,  awkward  way  at  Annie,  as  if  he  did 
not  know  how  to  make  his  adieux.  But  Annie,  who  was 
a  simple  child  creature,  solved  the  difficulty  for  him  with 
happy  readiness.  She  filing  both  her  small  arms  about  his 
ungainly  body  and  held  up  her  face. 

"  Kiss  me  three  times,"  she  said;   "  three  times." 

Latimer  started  and  flushed.  He  looked  down  at  her  and 
then  glanced  rather  timidly  at  Baird. 

"  Kiss  her,"  said  Baird,  "  it  will  please  her — and  it  will 
please  me." 

Latimer  bent  himself  to  the  child's  height  and  kissed  her. 
The  act  was  without  grace,  and  when  he  stood  upright  he 
was  more  awkward  and  embarrassed  than  ever.  But  the 
caress  was  not  a  cold  or  rough  one,  and  when  he  turned 
and  strode  away  the  flush  was  still  on  his  sallow  cheek. 

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CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  Stornaway  parlours  were  very  brilliant  that  evening 
in  a  Willowfield  sense.  Not  a  Burton,  a  Larkin,  or  a  Down- 
ing was  missing,  even  Miss  Amory  Starkweather  being  pres- 
ent. Miss  Amory  Starkweather  was  greatly  respected  by 
the  Stornaways,  the  Downings,  the  Larkins,  and  the  Burtons, 
the  Starkweathers  having  landed  upon  Plymouth  Rock  so 
early  and  with  such  a  distinguished  sense  of  their  own  im- 
portance as  to  lead  to  the  impression  in  weak  minds  that 
they  had  not  only  founded  that  monumental  corner-stone 
of  ancestry,  but  were  personally  responsible  for  the  May- 
flower. This  gentlewoman  represented  to  the  humorous 
something  more  of  the  element  of  comedy  than  she  repre- 
sented to  herself.  She  had  been  born  into  a  world  too  narrow 
and  provincial  for  the  development  of  the  powers  born  with 
her.  She  had  been  an  ugly  girl  and  an  ugly  woman,  marked 
by  the  hopeless  ugliness  of  a  long,  ill-proportioned  face, 
small  eyes,  and  a  nose  too  large  and  high — that  ugliness 
which  even  love's  eyes  can  scarcely  ameliorate  into  good 
drawing. 

The  temperament  attached  to  these  painful  disabilities 
had  been  warm  and  strongly  womanly.  Born  a  century 
or  so  earlier,  in  a  French  Court,  or  any  great  world  vivid 
with  picturesque  living,  she  would  in  all  probability  have 
been  a  remarkable  personage,  her  ugliness  a  sort  of  distinc- 
tion; but  she  had  been  born  in  Willowfield,  and  had  lived 
its  life  and  been  bound  by  its  limits.  She  had  been  com- 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

fortably  well  off — she  had  a  large  square  house  with  a  gar- 
den, an  income  sufficient  to  provide  for  extremely  respect- 
able existence  in  Willowfield,  but  not  large  enough  to  allow 
of  experiments  with  the  outside  world.  She  had  never  met 
a  man  whom  she  could  have  loved,  who  would  have  loved 
her,  and  she  was  essentially — though  Willowfield  would 
never  have  dreamed  it — a  woman  who  should  have  loved 
and  mated.  A  lifetime  of  narrow,  unstimulating  years  and 
thwarted  instincts  had  made  age  treat  her  ill.  She  was  a 
thin  woman  with  burning  eyes,  and  a  personality  people 
were  afraid  of. 

She  had  always  found  an  interest  in  John  Baird.  When 
he  had  come  to  Willowfield  she  had  seen  in  him  that  element 
which  her  whole  long  life  had  lacked.  His  emotional  poten- 
tialities had  wakened  her  imagination.  If  she  had  been  a 
young  woman  she  knew  that  she  might  have  fallen  tragi- 
cally, and  hopelessly  in  love  with  him;  as  an  old  woman 
she  found  it  well  worth  her  while  to  watch  him  and  specu- 
late upon  him.  When  he  had  become  engaged  to  Agnes 
Stornaway,  she  had  watched  him  and  secretly  wondered  how 
the  engagement  would  end;  when  it  had  ended  in  marriage 
she  had  not  wondered,  but  she  had  seen  many  things  other 
people  did  not  see.  "  He  is  not  in  love  with  her,"  had  been 
her  mental  decision,  "  but  he  is  emotional,  and  he  is  in  love 
with  her  being  in  love  with  him.  There  is  no  foretelling 
what  will  come  of  it." 

Baird  had  found  himself  attracted  by  Miss  Amory.  He 
did  not  know  that  if  she  had  been  young  she  would,  despite 
her  ugliness,  have  had  a  powerful  feminine  effect  on  him. 
He  used  to  go  and  talk  to  her,  and  he  was  not  conscious  that 
he  went  when  he  was  made  restless  by  a  lack  of  something 
in  the  mental  atmosphere  about  him.  He  could  talk  to  her 

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as  he  could  not  talk  to  the  rest  of  Willowfield.  She  read 
and  thought  and  argued  with  herself,  and  as  a  product  of 
a  provincial  dogmatic  New  England  town  was  a  curious  de- 
velopment. 

"  Were  you  once  a  brilliant,  wicked,  feminine  mover  of 
things  in  some  old  French  court?  "  he  said  to  her  once. 

They  had  been  plunging  deep  into  the  solving  of  unsolv- 
able  problems,  and  she  turned  her  burning  old  eyes  on  him 
as  she  answered. 

"  God  knows  what  I  was,"  she  said,  "  but  it  was  nothing 
like  this — nothing  like  this — and  I  was  not  wicked." 

"No,"  Baird  replied,  "you  were  not  wicked;  but  you 
broke  laws." 

"  Yes,  I  broke  laws,"  she  agreed;  "  but  they  were  hideous 
laws — better  broken  than  kept." 

She  had  been  puzzled  by  the  fact  that  after  his  wife  left 
him  he  had  had  a  restless  period  and  had  seemed  to  pass 
through  a  miserable  phase,  such  as  a  man  suffering  from 
love  and  longing  might  endure. 

"Has  he  fallen  in  love  with  her  because  she  has  gone 
away?  "  she  wondered;  "  men  are  capable  of  it  at  times." 

But  later  she  decided  mentally  that  this  was  not  his  special 
case.  She  saw,  however,  that  he  was  passing  through  some 
mental  crisis  which  was  a  dangerous  struggle.  He  was  rest- 
less and  often  away  from  Willowfield  for  two  or  three  days 
at  a  time. 

"  To  provide  the  place  with  orthodox  doctrine  once  a  week 
is  more  than  he  can  bear,  and  to  be  bored  to  extinction  into 
the  bargain  makes  him  feel  morbid,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  I  hope  he  won't  begin  to  be  lured  by  things  which  might 
produce  catastrophe." 

Once  he  came  and  spent  a  long,  hot  summer  evening  with 

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her,  and  when  he  went  away  she  had  arrived  at  another 
decision,  and  it  made  her  wretched. 

"  He  is  lured,"  she  thought.  "  I  cannot  help  him,  and 
God  knows  Willowfield  could  not.  After  this — perhaps  the 
Deluge." 

She  saw  but  little  of  him  for  two  months,  and  then  he 
was  called  across  the  Atlantic  hy  his  wife's  illness  and  left 
the  place. 

"  Write  to  me  now  and  then,"  he  said,  when  he  came  to 
hid  her  good-bye. 

"  What  can  I  write  about  from  Willowfield  to  a  man  in 
Paris?"  she  asked. 

"  About  Willowfield,"  he  answered,  holding  her  hand  and 
laughing  a  little  gruesomely.  "  There  will  be  a  thrill  in  it 
when  one  is  three  thousand  miles  away.  Tell  me  about  the 
church — about  the  people — who  comes,  who  goes — your 
own  points  of  view  will  make  it  all  worth  while.  Will 
you  ?  "  almost  as  if  a  shade  anxiously. 

She  felt  the  implied  flattery  just  enough  to  be  vaguely 
pleased  by  it. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  she  answered. 

She  kept  her  word,  and  the  letters  were  worth  reading.  It 
was,  as  he  had  said,  her  points  of  view  which  gave  interest 
to  the  facts  that  unexciting  people  had  died,  married,  or 
been  born.  Her  sketch  of  the  trying  position  of  the  un- 
popular man  who  filled  his  pulpit  and  was  unfavourably 
compared  with  him  every  Sunday  morning  was  full  of  astute 
analysis  and  wit;  her  little  picture  of  the  gloomy  young 
theological  student,  Latimer,  his  efforts  for  his  sister,  and 
her  innocent,  pathetic  death  in  a  foreign  land  had  a  wonder- 
ful realism  of  touch.  She  had  by  pure  accident  made  the 
child's  acquaintance  and  had  been  strongly  touched  and 

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moved.     She  did  not  write  often,  but  he  read  her  letters 
many  times  over. 

Upon  this  evening  of  his  home-coming  she  thought  he  had 
sometimes  the  look  of  a  man  who  felt  that  he  walked  in  a 
dream.  More  than  once  she  saw  him  involuntarily  pass  his 
hand  with  a  swift  movement  over  his  eyes  as  if  his  own 
touch  might  waken  him.  It  was  true  he  did  not  greatly 
enjoy  the  festivities.  His  occasional  views  of  Mrs.  Storn- 
away  as  she  rambled  among  her  guests,  talking  to  them 
about  him  in  audible  tones,  were  trying.  She  dispensed 
him  with  her  hospitalities,  as  it  were,  and  was  diffuse  upon 
the  extent  of  his  travels  and  the  attention  paid  him,  to  each 
member  of  the  company  in  turn.  He  knew  when  she  was 
speaking  of  himself  and  when  of  her  daughter,  and  the 
alternate  decorous  sentiment  and  triumphant  pleasure 
marked  on  her  broad  face  rasped  him  to  the  extent  of  making 
him  fear  lest  he  might  lose  his  temper. 

"  She  is  a  stupid  woman/'  he  found  himself  saying  half 
aloud  once;  "  the  most  stupid  woman  I  think  I  ever  met." 

Towards  the  end  of  the  evening,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
he  found  himself  obliged  to  pass  her.  She  stood  near  the 
door,  engaged  in  animated  conversation  with  Mrs.  Downing. 
She  had  hit  upon  a  new  and  absorbing  topic,  which  had  the 
additional  charge  of  savouring  of  local  gossip. 

"  Why,"  he  heard  her  say,  "  I  mean  to  ask  him.  He 
can  tell  us,  I  guess.  I  haven't  a  doubt  but  he  heard  the 
whole  story.  You  know  he  has  a  way  of  drawing  people 
out.  He's  so  much  tact  and  sympathy.  I  used  to  tell  Agnes 
he  was  all  tact  and  sympathy." 

Feeling  quite  sure  that  it  was  himself  who  was  "  all  tact 
and  sympathy,"  Baird  endeavoured  to  move  by  unobserved, 
but  she  caught  sight  of  him  and  checked  his  progress. 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Mr.  Baird,"  she  said,  "  we're  just  talking  about  you." 

"  Don't  talk  about  me,"  he  said,  lightly;  "  I  am  not  half 
so  culpable  as  I  look." 

He  often  found  small  change  of  this  order  could  be  made 
useful  with  Mrs.  Stornaway,  and  he  bestowed  this  upon  her 
with  an  easy  air  which  she  felt  to  be  very  delightful. 

"  He's  so  ready,"  she  observed,  enraptured;  "  I  often  used 
to  say  to  Agnes " 

But  Mrs.  Downing  was  not  to  be  defrauded. 

"  We  were  talking  about  those  people  on  Bank  Street," 
she  said,  "  the  Latimers.  Mrs.  Stornaway  says  you  crossed 
the  Atlantic  with  the  son,  who  has  just  come  back.  Do 
tell  us  something  about  him." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  make  him  as  interesting  to  you 
as  he  was  to  me,"  answered  Baird,  with  his  light  air  again. 

"  He  does  not  look  very  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Stornaway. 
"  I  never  saw  anyone  so  sallow;  I  can't  understand  Annie 
liking  him." 

"  He  is  interesting,"  responded  Baird.  "  Annie  took  one 
of  her  fancies  to  him,  and  I  took  something  more  than  a 
fancy.  We  shall  be  good  friends,  I  think." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  take  such  an  in- 
terest," proclaimed  Mrs.  Stornaway.  "  You  are  always 
finding  something  good  in  people." 

"  I  wish  people  were  always  finding  something  good  in 
me,"  said  John  Baird.  "  It  was  not  difficult  to  find  good 
in  this  man.  He  is  of  the  stuff  they  made  saints  and  mar- 
tyrs of  in  the  olden  times." 

"  What  did  the  girl  die  of?  "  asked  Mrs.  Downing. 

"  What?  "  repeated  Baird.    "  The  girl?    I  don't  know." 

"And  where  did  she  die?  "  added  Mrs.  Downing. 

"  I  was  just  saying,"  put  in  Mrs.  Stornaway,  "  that  you 

HI 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

had  such  a  sympathetic  way  of  drawing  people  out  that  I 
was  sure  he  had  told  you  the  whole  story." 

"  There  was  not  much  story,"  Baird  answered,  "  and  it 
was  too  sad  to  talk  over.  The  poor  child  went  abroad 
and  died  in  some  little  place  in  Italy — of  consumption, 
I  think." 

"  I  suppose  she  was  sick  when  they  went,"  commented 
Mrs.  Downing.  "  I  heard  so.  It  was  a  queer  thing  for 
them  to  go  to  Europe,  as  inexperienced  as  they  were  and 
everything.  But  the  father  and  mother  were  more  inex- 
perienced still,  I  guess.  They  were  perfectly  foolish  about 
the  girl — and  so  was  the  brother.  She  went  to  some  studio 
in  Boston  to  study  art,  and  they  had  an  idea  her  bits  of 
pictures  were  wonderful." 

"  I  never  saw  her  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Stornaway.  "  No 
one  seems  to  have  seen  anything  of  her  but  Miss  Amory 
Starkweather." 

"  Miss  Starkweather!  "  exclaimed  Baird.  "  Oh,  yes — in 
her  letters  she  mentioned  having  met  her." 

"  Well,  it  was  a  queer  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Downing,  "  but 
it  was  like  Miss  Amory.  They  say  the  girl  fainted  in  the 
street  as  Miss  Amory  was  driving  by,  and  she  stopped  her 
carriage  and  took  her  in  and  carried  her  home.  She  took 
quite  a  fancy  to  her  and  saw  her  every  day  or  so  until  she 
went  away." 

It  was  not  unnatural  that  at  this  juncture  John  Baird's 
eyes  should  wander  across  the  room  to  where  Miss  Amory 
Starkweather  sat,  but  it  was  a  coincidence  that  as  his  eye 
fell  upon  her  she  should  meet  it  with  a  gesture  which  called 
him  to  her  side. 

"  It  seems  that  Miss  Amory  wishes  to  speak  to  me,"  he 
said  to  his  companions. 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

"  He'll  make  himself  just  as  interesting  to  her  as  he  has 
made  himself  to  us,"  said  Mrs.  Stornaway,  with  heavy 
sprightliness,  as  he  left  them.  "  He  never  spares  himself 
trouble/' 

He  went  across  the  room  to  Miss  Amory. 

"  Can  you  sit  down  by  me?  "  she  said.  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about  Lucien  Latimer." 

"  What  is  there  in  the  atmosphere  which  suggests  Lati- 
mer? "  he  inquired.  "  We  have  been  talking  about  him 
at  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  I  never  saw  him,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  knew  her." 

"  Her!  "  he  repeated. 

"  The  little  sister."  She  leaned  forward  a  little.  "  What 
were  the  details  of  her  death?"  she  asked.  "I  want  to 
know — I  want  to  know." 

Somehow  the  words  sounded  nervously  eager. 

"  I  did  not  ask  him,"  he  answered;  "  I  thought  he  pre- 
ferred to  be  silent.  He  is  a  silent  man." 

She  sat  upright  again,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  for- 
get herself.  She  said  something  two  or  three  times  softly 
to  herself.  Baird  thought  it  was  "  Poor  child!  Poor 
child!" 

"  She  was  young  to  die,"  he  said,  in-  a  low  voice.  "  Poor 
child,  indeed." 

Miss  Amory  came  back  to  him,  as  it  were. 

"  The  younger,  the  better,"  she  said.  "  Look  at  me!  " 
Her  burning  eyes  were  troubling  and  suggestive.  Baird 
found  himself  trying  to  gather  himself  together.  He  as- 
sumed the  natural  air  of  kindly  remonstrance. 

"  Oh,  come,"  he  said.  "  Don't  take  that  tone.  It  is 
unfair  to  all  of  us." 

Her  reply  was  certainly  rather  a  startling  one. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Very  well  then/'  she  responded.  "  Look  at  yourself. 
If  you  had  died  as  young  as  she  did — >— " 

He  looked  at  her,  conscious  of  a  little  coldness  creep- 
ing over  his  body.  She  was  usually  lighter  when  they  were 
not  entirely  alone.  Just  now,  in  the  midst  of  this  common- 
place, exceedingly  middle-class  evening  party,  with  the 
Larkins,  the  Downings,  and  the  Burtons  chattering,  warm, 
diffuse,  and  elate,  about  him,  she  stirred  him  with  a  little 
horror — not  horror  of  herself,  but  of  something  in  her 
mood. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  such  a  bad  fellow?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  Worse,  poor  thing.  It  is  not 
the  bad  fellows  who  produce  the  crudest  results.  But  I 
did  not  call  you  here  to  tell  you  that  you  were  bad  or  good. 
I  called  you  to  speak  about  Lucien  Latimer.  When  you  go 
to  him — you  are  going  to  him?  " 

"  To-morrow." 

"  Then  tell  him  to  come  and  see  me." 

"I  will  tell  him  anything  you  wish,"  said  Baird.  "Is 
there  anything  else?  " 

"  Tell  him  I  knew  her,"  she  answered,  "  Margery — Mar- 
gery! " 

"Margery,"  Baird  said  slowly,  as  if  the  sound  touched 
him.  "  What  a  pretty,  simple  name!  " 

"  She  was  a  pretty,  simple  creature,"  said  Miss  Amory. 

"  Tell  me "  he  said,  "  tell  me  something  more  about 

her." 

"  There  is  nothing  more  to  tell,"  she  replied.  "  She  was 
dying  when  I  met  her.  I  saw  it — in  her  eyes.  She  could 
not  have  lived.  She  went  away  and  died.  She — I " 

John  Baird  heard  a  slight  sharp  choking  sound  in  her 
throat. 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  There!  "  she  said  presently,  "  I  don't  like  to  talk  about 
it.  I  am  too  emotional  for  my  years.  Go  to  Mrs.  Storn- 
away.  She  is  looking  for  you." 

He  got  up  and  turned  and  left  her  without  speaking, 
and  a  few  minutes  later,  when  Mrs.  Stornaway  wanted  him 
to  give  an  account  of  his  interview  with  the  Pope,  she  was 
surprised  to  see  him  approaching  her  from  the  door  as  if 
he  had  been  out  of  the  room. 

His  story  of  the  interview  with  the  Pope  was  very  in- 
teresting, and  he  was  more  "  brilliant "  than  ever  during 
the  remainder  of  the  evening,  but  when  the  last  guest  had 
departed,  followed  by  Mrs.  Stornaway  to  the  threshold, 
that  lady,  on  her  return  to  the  parlour,  found  him  stand- 
ing by  the  mantel  looking  at  the  fire  with  so  profoundly 
wearied  an  air,  that  she  uttered  an  exclamation. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "you  look  tired,  I  must  say.  But 
everything  went  off  splendidly  and  I  never  saw  you  so 
brilliant." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered. 

"  I've  just  been  saying,"  with  renewed  spirit  of  admira- 
tion, "  that  your  crossing  with  that  Latimer  has  quite 
brought  him  into  notice.  It  will  be  a  good  thing  for  him. 
I  heard  several  people  speak  of  him  to-night  and  say  how 
kind  it  was  of  you  to  take  him  up." 

Baird  stirred  uneasily. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  have  that  tone  taken,"  he  said. 
"  Why  should  I  patronise  him  ?  We  shall  be  friends — if 
he  will  allow  it."  He  spoke  with  so  much  heat  and  impa- 
tience that  Mrs.  Stornaway  listened  with  a  discomfited  stare. 

"  But  nobody  knows  anything  about  them,"  she  said. 
"  They're  quite  ordinary  people.  They  live  in  Bank 
Street." 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"That  may  settle  the  matter  for  Willowfield,"  said 
Baird,  "  but  it  does  not  settle  it  for  me.  We  are  to  be 
friends,  and  Willowfield  must  understand  that/' 

And  such  was  the  decision  of  his  tone  that  Mrs.  Storn- 
away  did  not  recover  herself  and  was  still  staring  after 
him  in  a  bewildered  fashion  when  he  went  upstairs. 

"  But  it's  just  like  him,"  she  remarked,  rather  weakly 
to  the  room's  emptiness.  "  That's  always  the  way  with 
people  of  genius  and — and — mind.  They're  always  hum- 
ble.'1 


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CHAPTER  XIV 

SHE  had  renewed  opportunity  for  remarking  upon  the 
generous  humility  the  next  morning  when  he  left  the  house 
with  the  intention  of  paying  his  visit  to  Bank  Street. 

"  He's  actually  going,"  she  said.  "  Well,  I  must  say 
again  it's  just  like  him.  There  are  very  few  men  in  his 
position  who  would  think  it  worth  while,  but  he  treats 
everybody  with  just  as  much  consideration  as  if — as  if  he 
was  nobody." 

The  house  on  Bank  Street  was  just  what  he  had  expected 
to  find 'it — small,  unornamental,  painted  white,  and  mod- 
estly putting  forth  a  few  vines  as  if  with  a  desire  to  clothe 
itself,  which  had  not  been  encouraged  by  Nature.  The 
vines  had  not  flourished  and  they,  as  well  as  the  few  flowers 
in  the  yard,  were  dropping  their  scant  foliage,  which  turned 
brown  and  rustled  in  the  autumn  wind. 

Before  ringing  the  bell,  Baird  stood  for  a  few  moments 
upon  the  threshold.  As  he  looked  up  and  down  the  street, 
he  was  pale  and  felt  chilly,  so  chilly  that  he  buttoned  his 
light  overcoat  over  his  breast  and  his  hands  even  shook 
slightly  as  he  did  it.  Then  he  turned  and  rang  the  bell. 

It  was  answered  by  a  little  woman  with  a  girlish  figure 
and  gray  hair.  For  a  moment  John  Baird  paused  before 
speaking  to  her,  as  he  had  paused  before  ringing  the  bell, 
and  in  the  pause,  during  which  he  found  himself  looking 
into  her  soft,  childishly  blue  eyes,  he  felt  even  chillier  than 
at  first. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Mrs.  Latimer.    I  think,"  he  said,  baring  his  head. 

"  Yes/'  she  answered,  "  and  you  are  Mr.  Baird  and  have 
come  to  see  Lucien,  I'm  sure." 

She  gave  him  her  small  hand  with  a  smile. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,';  she  said,  "  and  Lucien  will 
be  glad,  too.  Come  in,  please." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  little  parlour,  talking  in  a  voice 
as  soft  and  kindly  as  her  eyes.  Lucien  had  been  out,  but 
had  just  come  in,  she  fancied,  and  was  probably  upstairs. 
She  would  go  and  tell  him. 

So,  having  taken  him  into  the  room,  she  went,  leaving 
him  alone.  When  she  was  gone,  Baird  stood  for  a  moment 
listening  to  her  footsteps  upon  the  stairs.  Then  he  crossed 
the  room  and  stood  before  the  hearth  looking  up  at  a 
picture  which  hung  over  the  mantel. 


He  was  still  standing  before  it  when  she  returned  with 
her  son.  He  turned  slowly  to  confront  them,  holding  out 
his  hand  to  Latimer  with  something  less  of  alert  and  sym- 
pathetic readiness  than  was  usual  with  him.  There  was  in 
his  manner  an  element  which  corresponded  with  the  lack 
of  colour  and  warmth  in  his  face. 

"  I've  been  looking  at  this  portrait  of  your — of "  he 

began. 

"  Of  Margery,"  put  in  the  little  mother.  "  Everyone 
looks  at  Margery  when  they  come  in.  It  seems  as  if  the 
child  somehow  filled  the  room."  And  though  her  soft 
voice  had  a  sigh  in  it,  she  did  not  speak  in  entire  sadness. 

John  Baird  looked  at  the  picture  again.  It  was  the 
portrait  of  a  slight  small  girl  with  wistful  eyes  and  an  in- 
nocent face. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  she/'  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice, 
"  and  you  are  quite  right  in  saying  that  she  seems  to  fill 
the  room." 

The  mother  put  her  hand  upon  her  son's  arm.  He  had 
turned  his  face  towards  the  window.  It  seemed  to  Baird 
that,her  light  touch  was  at  once  an  appeal  and  a  consolation. 

"She  filled  the  whole  house  when  she  was  here,"  she 
said;  "  and  yet  she  was  only  a  quiet  little  thing.  She  had 
a  bright  way  with  her  quietness  and  was  so  happy  and  busy. 
It  is  my  comfort  now  to  remember  that  she  was  always 
happy — happy  to  the  last,  Lucien  tells  me." 

She  looked  up  at  her  son's  averted  face  as  if  expecting 
him  to  speak,  and  he  responded  at  once,  though  in  his  usual 
mechanical  way. 

"  To  the  last,"  he  said;  "  she  had  no  fear  and  suffered 
no  pain." 

The  little  woman  watched  him  with  tender,  wistful  eyes; 
two  large  tears  welled  up  and  slipped  down  her  cheeks,  but 
she  smiled  softly  as  they  fell. 

"  She  had  so  wanted  to  go  to  Italy,"  she  said;  "  and  was 
so  happy  to  be  there.  And  at  the  last  it  was  such  a  lovely 
day,  and  she  enjoyed  it  so  and  was  propped  up  on  a  sofa 
near  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  blue  sky  and  the 
mountains,  and  made  a  little  sketch.  Tell  him,  Lucien," 
and  she  touched  his  arm  again. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear,"  said  Baird,  "but  you  must 
not  tire  yourself  by  standing,"  and  he  took  her  hand  gently 
and  led  her  to  a  chair  and  sat  down  beside  her,  still  hold- 
ing her  hand. 

But  Latimer  remained  standing,  resting  his  elbow  upon 
the  mantel  and  looking  down  at  the  floor  as  he  spoke. 

"  She  was  not  well  in  England,"  the  little  mother  put 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

ia>  "but  in  Italy  he  thought  she  was  better  even  to  the 
very  last." 

"  She  was  weak/'  Latimer  went  on,  without  raising  his 
eyes,  "but  she  was  always  bright  and — and  happy  She 
used  to  lie  on  the  sofa  by  the  window  and  look  out  and 
try  to  make  sketches.  She  could  see  the  Apennines,  and  it 
was  the  chestnut  harvest  and  the  peasants  used  to  pass 
along  the  road  on  their  way  to  the  forests,  and  she  liked  to 
watch  them.  She  used  to  try  to  sketch  them  too,  but  she 
was  too  weak;  and  when  I  wrote  home  for  her,  she  made 
me  describe  them " 

"  In  her  bright  way!  "  said  his  mother.  "  I  read  the  let- 
ters over  and  over  again  and  they  seemed  like  pictures — 
like  her  little  pictures.  It  scarcely  seems  as  if  Lucien 
could  have  written  them  at  all." 

"  The  last  day,"  said  Latimer,  "  I  had  written  home  to 
say  that  she  was  better.  She  was  so  well  in  the  morning 
that  she  talked  of  trying  to  take  a  drive,  but  in  the  after- 
noon she  was  a  little  tired " 

"But  only  a  little,"  interrupted  the  mother  eagerly, 
"  and  quite  happy." 

"  Only  a  little — and  quite  happy,"  said  Latimer.  "  There 
was  a  beautiful  sunset  and  I  drew  her  sofa  to  the  windows 
and  she  lay  and  looked  at  it — and  talked;  and  just  as  the 
sun  went  down " 

"  All  in  a  lovely  golden  glory,  as  if  the  gates  of  heaven 
were  open,"  the  gentle  voice  added. 

Latimer  paused  for  an  instant.  His  sallow  face  had  be- 
come paler.  He  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  touched 
his  forehead  with  it  and  his  lips. 

"  All  in  a  glow  of  gold,"  he  went  on  a  little  more  hoarsely, 
"  just  as  it  went  down,  she  turned  on  her  pillow  and  began 

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In   Connection  with 

The   De  Willoughby   Claim 

to  speak  to  me.  She  said  '  How  beautiful  it  all  is,  and  how 
glad — ,  And  her  voice  died  away.  I  thought  she  was 
looking  at  the  sky  again.  She  had  lifted  her  eyes  to  it  and 
was  smiling:  the  smile  was  on  her  face  when  I — bent  over 
her — a  few  moments  after — and  found  that  all  was  over." 

"It  was  not  like  death  at  all,"  said  his  mother  with  a 
soft  breathlessness.  "  She  never  even  knew."  And  though 
tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks,  she  smiled. 

Baird  rose  suddenly  and  went  to  Latimer's  side.  He  wore 
the  pale  and  bewildered  face  of  a  man  walking  in  a  dream. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  No,  it  was  not  like  death,"  he  said;  "  try  and  remem- 
ber that." 

"  I  do  remember  it,"  was  the  answer. 

"  She  escaped  both  death  and  life,"  said  John  Baird, 
"  both  death  and  life." 

The  little  mother  sat  wiping  her  eyes  gently. 

"  It  was  all  so  bright  to  her,"  she  said.  "  I  can  scarcely 
think  of  it  as  a  grief  that  we  have  lost  her — for  a  little 
while.  Her  little  room  upstairs  never  seems  empty.  I 
could  fancy  that  she  might  come  in  at  any  moment  smiling 
as  she  used  to.  If  she  had  ever  suffered  or  been  sad  in  it, 
I  might  feel  as  if  the  pain  and  sadness  were  left  there;  but 
when  I  open  the  door  it  seems  as  if  her  pretty  smile  met  me, 
or  the  sound  of  her  voice  singing  as  she  used  to  when  she 
painted." 

She  rose  and  went  to  her  son's  side  again,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm  with  a  world  of  tenderness  in  her  touch. 

"  Try  to  think  of  that,  Lucien,  dear,"  she  said;  "  try  to 
think  that  her  face  was  never  any  sadder  or  older  than  we 
see  it  in  her  pretty  picture  there.  She  might  have  lived  to 
be  tired  of  living,  and  she  was  saved  from  it." 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Try  to  help  him/'  she  said,  turning  to  Baird,  "  perhaps 
you  can.  He  has  not  learned  to  bear  it  yet.  They  were 
very  near  to  each  other,  and  perhaps  he  is  too  young  to 
think  of  it  as  we  do.  Grief  is  always  heavier  to  young 
people,  I  think.  Try  to  help  him." 

She  went  out  of  the  room  quietly,  leaving  them  together. 

When  she  was  gone,  John  Baird  found  himself  trying, 
with  a  helpless  feeling  of  desperation,  to  spur  himself  up 
to  saying  something;  but  neither  words  nor  thoughts  would 
come.  For  the  moment  his  mind  seemed  a  perfect  blank, 
and  the  silence  of  the  room  was  terrible. 

It  was  Latimer  who  spoke  first,  stiffly,  and  as  if  with 
difficulty. 

"  I  should  be  more  resigned/'  he  said,  "  I  should  be 
resigned.  But  it  has  been  a  heavy  blow." 

Baird  moistened  his  dry  lips  but  found  no  words. 

"  She  had  a  bright  nature,"  the  lagging  voice  went  on, 
"  a  bright  nature — and  gifts — which  I  had  not.  God  gave 
me  no  gifts,  and  it  is  natural  to  me  to  see  that  life  is  dark 
and  that  I  can  only  do  poorly  the  work  which  falls  to  me. 
I  was  a  gloomy,  unhappy  boy  when  she  was  born.  I  had 
learned  to  know  the  lack  in  myself  early,  and  I  saw  in  her 
what  I  longed  for.  I  know  the  feeling  is  a  sin  against  God 
and  that  His  judgment  will  fall  upon  me — but  I  have  no 
power  against  it." 

"  It  is  a  very  natural  feeling,"  said  Baird,  hoarsely.  "  We 
cannot  resign  ourselves  at  once  under  a  great  sorrow." 

"  A  just  God  who  punishes  rebellion  demands  it  of  His 
servants." 

"Don't  say  that!"  Baird  interrupted,  with  a  shudder; 
"  we  need  a  God  of  Mercy,  not  a  God  who  condemns." 

"  Need! "  the  dark  face  almost  livid  in  its  pallor,  "  We 
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need!  It  is  not  He  who  was  made  for  our  needs,  but  we  for 
His.  For  His  servants  there  is  only  submission  to  the 
anguish  chosen  for  us." 

"  That  is  a  harsh  creed,"  said  Baird,  "  and  a  dark  one. 
Try  a  brighter  one,  man! " 

"  There  is  no  brighter  one  for  me,"  was  the  answer. 
"  She  had  a  brighter  one,  poor  child — and  mine  was  a  heavy 
trouble  to  her.  Why  should  we  deceive  ourselves?  What 
are  we  in  His  sight — in  the  sight  of  Immutable,  Eternal 
God?  We  can  only  do  His  will  and  await  the  end.  We 
have  reason  which  we  may  not  use;  we  can  only  believe  and 
suffer.  There  is  agony  on  every  side  of  us  which,  if  it  were 
His  will,  He  might  relieve,  but  does  not.  It  is  His  will, 
and  what  is  the  impotent  rebellion  of  Nature  against  that  ? 
What  help  have  we  against  Him?" 

His  harsh  voice  had  risen  until  it  was  almost  a  cry, 
the  lank  locks  which  fell  over  his  sallow  forehead  were 
damp  with  sweat.  He  put  them  back  with  a  desperate 
gesture. 

"  Such  words  of  themselves  are  sin,"  he  said,  "  and  it  is 
my  curse  and  punishment  that  I  should  bear  in  my  breast 
every  hour  the  crime  of  such  rebellion.  What  is  there  left 
for  me?  Is  there  any  labour  or  any  pang  borne  for  others 
that  will  wipe  out  the  stain  from  my  soul?  " 

John  Baird  looked  at  him  as  he  had  looked  before.  His 
usual  ready  flow  of  speech,  his  rapidity  of  thought,  his 
knowledge  of  men  and  their  necessities  seemed  all  to  have 
deserted  him. 

"  I—"  he  stammered,  "  I  am  not— fit—not  fit " 

He  had  not  known  what  he  was  going  to  say  when  he 
began,  and  he  did  not  know  how  he  intended  to  end.  He 
heard  with  a  passionate  sense  of  relief  that  the  door  behind 

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them  opened,  and  turned  to  find  that  Mrs.  Latimer  stood 
upon  the  threshold  as  if  in  hesitancy. 

"  Lucien,"  she  said,  "  it  is  that  poor  girl  from  Janway's 
Mills.  The  one  Margery  was  so  sorry  for — Susan  Chap- 
man. She  wants  to  see  you.  I  think  the  poor  child  wants 
to  ask  about  Margery." 

Latimer  made  a  movement  forward,  but  checked  himself. 

"  Tell  her  to  come  in,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Latimer  went  to  the  front  door,  and  in  a  few  seconds 
returned.  The  girl  was  with  her  and  entered  the  room 
slowly.  She  was  very  pale  and  her  eyes  were  dilated  and 
she  breathed  fast  as  if  frightened.  She  glanced  at  John 
Baird  and  stopped. 

"  I  didn't  know  anyone  else  was  here/'  she  said. 

"I  will  go  away,  if  you  wish  it,"  said  Baird,  the  sym- 
pathetic tone  returning  to  his  voice. 

"  No,"  said  Latimer,  "  you  can  do  her  more  good  than  I 
can.  This  gentleman,"  he  added  to  the  girl,  "  is  my  friend, 
and  a  Minister  of  God  as  well  as  myself.  He  is  the  Eev. 
John  Baird." 

There  was  in  his  eyes,  as  he  addressed  her,  a  look  which 
was  like  an  expression  of  dread — as  if  he  saw  in  her  young 
yet  faded  face  and  figure  something  which  repelled  him 
almost  beyond  self-control. 

Perhaps  the  girl  saw,  while  she  did  not  comprehend  it. 
She  regarded  him  helplessly. 

"  I — I  don't  know — hardly — why  I  came,"  she  faltered, 
twisting  the  corner  of  her  shawl. 

She  had  been  rather  pretty,  but  the  colour  and  freshness 
were  gone  from  her  face  and  there  were  premature  lines  of 
pain  and  misery  marking  it  here  and. 

Baird  moved  a  chair  near  her* 

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"Sit  down/'  he  said.  "Have  you  walked  all  the  way 
from  Janway's  Mills?  " 

She  started  a  little  and  gave  him  a  look,  half  wonder,  half 
relief,  and  then  fell  to  twisting  the  fringe  of  her  poor  shawl 
again. 

"  Yes,  I  walked,"  she  answered;  "  but  I  can't  set  down. 
I  h'ain't  but  a  minute  to  stay." 

Her  clothes,  which  had  been  shabby  at  their  best,  were 
at  their  worst  now,  and,  altogether,  she  was  a  figure  neither 
attractive  nor  picturesque.  > 

But  Baird  saw  pathos  in  her.  It  was  said  that  one  of 
his  most  charming  qualities  was  his  readiness  to  discover 
the  pathetic  under  any  guise. 

"  You  came  to  ask  Mr.  Latimer  some  questions,  per- 
haps? "  he  said. 

She  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I— I  couldn't  help  it." 

She  checked  herself  and  wiped  her  tears  away  with  the 
shawl  corner  almost  immediately. 

"I  wanted  to  know  something  about  her"  she  said. 
"  Nobody  seemed  to  know  nothin',  only  that  she  was  dead. 
When  they  said  you'd  come  home,  it  seemed  like  I  couldn't 
rest  until  I'd  heard  something." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  hear?  "  said  Latimer. 

It  struck  Baird  that  the  girl's  manner  was  a  curious  one. 
It  was  a  manner  which  seemed  to  conceal  beneath  its  shame- 
faced awkwardness  some  secret  fear  or  anxiety.  She  gave 
Latimer  a  hurried,  stealthy  look,  and  then  her  eyes  fell. 
It  was  as  if  she  would  have  read  in  his  gloomy  face  what 
she  did  not  dare  to  ask. 

"  I'd  be  afraid  to  die  myself,"  she  stammered.  "  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  it.  I'm  afraid.  Was  she?  " 

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"  No,"  Latimer  answered. 

The  girl  gave  him  another  dull,  stealthy  look. 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,"  'she  said;  "  she  can't  have  minded 
so  much  if  she  wasn't  afraid.  I'd  like  to  think  she  didn't 
mind  it  so  much — or  suffer." 

"  She  did  not  suffer,"  said  Latimer. 

"  I  never  saw  nothin'  of  her  after  the  last  day  she  came 
to  Janway's  Mills,"  the  girl  began. 

Latimer  lifted  his  eyes  suddenly. 

"  She  went  to  the  Mills?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  her  voice  shaking.  "  I  guess  she 
never  told.  After  that  first  night  she  stood  by  me.  No 
one  else  did.  Seemed  like  other  folks  thought  I'd  poison 
'em.  She'd  come  an'  see  me  an' — help  me.  She  was  sick 
the  last  day  she  came,  and  when  she  was  going  home  she 
fainted  in  the  street,  I  heard  folks  say,  I  never  saw  her  after 
that." 

She  brushed  a  tear  from  her  face  with  the  shawl  again. 

41  So  as  she  didn't  mind  much,  or  suffer,"  she  said,  "  t'ain't 
so  bad  to  think  of.  She  wasn't  one  to  be  able  to  stand  up 
against  things.  She'd  have  died  if  she'd  been  me.  I'd  be 
glad  enough  to  die  myself,  if  I  wasn't  afraid.  She'd  cry 
over  me  when  I  wasn't  crying  over  myself.  I've  been  beat 
about  till  I  don't  mind,  like  I  used.  They're  a  hard  lot 
down  at  the  Mills." 

"  And  you,"  said  Latimer,  "  what  sort  of  a  life  have  you 
been  leading?  " 

His  voice  was  harsh  and  his  manner  repellant  only  be- 
cause Nature  had  served  him  the  cruel  turn  of  making 
them  so.  He  was  bitterly  conscious  as  he  spoke  of  having 
chosen  the  wrong  words  and  uttered  them  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  relentless  rigour  which  he  would  have  made 
any  effort  to  soften. 

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Baird  made  a  quick  movement  towards  the  girl. 

"  Have  you  any  work?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  you  need  help? 
Don't  mind  telling  us.  My  friend  is  to  take  charge  of  your 
church  at  the  Mills." 

The  girl  interrupted  him.  She  had  turned  miserably 
pale  under  Latimer's  question. 

"  'Tain't  no  church  of  mine! "  she  said,  passionately;  "  I 
h'ain't  nothin'  to  do  with  it.  I  never  belonged  to  no  church 
anyhow,  an'  Fm  leadin'  the  kind  o'  life  any  girl'd  lead 
that  hadn't  nothin'  nor  nobody.  I  don't  mean,"  with  a 
strangled  sob,  "  to  even  myself  with  her;  but  what'ud  she 
ha'  done  if  she'd  ha'  slipped  like  I  did — an'  then  had 
nothin'  nor — nor  nobody?  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  her!  "  cried  Latimer,  almost  fiercely. 

"  'Twon't  hurt  her,"  said  the  girl,  struggling  with  a  sob 
again;  "  she's  past  bein'  hurt  even  by  such  as  me — an'  I'm 
glad  of  it.  She's  well  out  of  it  all!  " 

She  turned  as  if  she  would  have  gone  away,  but  Baird 
checked  her. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  he  said;  "  perhaps  I  can  be  of  some 
service  to  you." 

"You  can't  do  nothin',"  she  interrupted.  "Nobody 
can't! " 

"  Let  me  try,"  he  said;  "  take  a  note  to  Miss  Starkweather 
from  me  and  wait  at  the  house  for  a  few  minutes.  Come, 
that  isn't  much,  is  it?  You'll  do  that  much,  I'm  sure." 

She  looked  down  at  the  floor  a  few  seconds  and  then  up 
at  him.  It  had  always  been  considered  one  of  his  recom- 
mendations that  he  was  so  unprofessional  in  his  appearance. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  I  can  do  that,  I  suppose." 

He  drew  a  note-book  from  his  breast-pocket  and,  hav- 
ing written  a  few  words  on  a  leaf  of  it,  tore  it  out  and 
handed  it  to  her. 

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"  Take  that  to  Miss  Starkweather's  house  and  say  I  sent 
you  with  it." 

When  she  was  gone,  he  turned  to  Latimer  again. 

"  Before  I  go,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  to 
you — to  ask  you  to  make  me  a  promise." 

"  What  is  the  promise?  "  said  Latimer. 

"  It  is  that  we  shall  be  friends — friends." 

Baird  laid  his  hand  on  the  man's  gaunt  shoulder  with  a 
nervous  grasp  as  he  spoke,  and  his  voice  was  unsteady. 

"  I  have  never  had  a  friend,"  answered  Latimer,  monot- 
onously; "  I  should  scarcely  know  what  to  do  with  one." 

"  Then  it  is  time  you  had  one,"  Baird  replied.  "  And 
I  may  have  something  to  offer  you.  There  may  be  some- 
thing in — in  my  feeling  which  may  be  worth  your  having." 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

Latimer  looked  at  it  for  a  second,  then  at  him,  his  sal- 
low face  flushing  darkly. 

"  You  are  offering  me  a  good  deal,"  he  said,  "  I  scarcely 
know  why — myself." 

"  But  you  don't  take  my  hand,  Latimer,"  Baird  said; 
and  the  words  were  spoken  with  a  faint  loss  of  colour. 

Latimer  took  it,  flushing  more  darkly  still. 

"What  have  I  to  offer  in  return?"  he  said.  "I  have 
nothing.  You  had  better  think  again.  I  should  only  be 
a  kind  of  shadow  on  your  life." 

"  I  want  nothing  in  return — nothing,"  Baird  said.  "  I 
don't  even  ask  feeling  from  you.  Be  a  shadow  on  my  life, 
if  you  will.  Why  should  I  have  no  shadows?  Why  should 

all  go  smoothly  with  me,  while  others "  He  paused, 

checking  his  vehemence  as  if  he  had  suddenly  recognised 
it.  "  Let  us  be  friends,"  he  said. 


176 


CHAPTER  XT 

THE  respectable  portion  of  the  population  of  Janway's 
Mills  believed  in  church-going  and  on  Sunday-school  at- 
tendance— in  fact,  the  most  entirely  respectable  believed 
that  such  persons  as  neglected  these  duties  were  preparing 
themselves  for  damnation.  They  were  a  quiet,  simple,  and 
unintellectual  people.  Such  of  them  as  occasionally  read 
books  knew  nothing  of  any  literature  which  was  not  re- 
ligious. The  stories  they  had  followed  through  certain 
inexpensive  periodicals  were  of  the  order  which  describes 
the  gradual  elevation  of  the  worldly-minded  or  depraved 
to  the  plane  of  church-going  and  Sunday-school.  Theii 
few  novels  made  it  their  motif  to  prove  that  it  is  easier  for 
a  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle  than  for  a  rich 
man  to  enter  into  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  Any  hero  or 
heroine  of  wealth  who  found  peace  of  mind  and  married 
happily,  only  attained  these  objects  through  the  assistance 
of  some  noble  though  humble  unsecular  person  whose  ex- 
ample and  instruction  led  them  to  adopt  unsecular  views. 
The  point  of  view  of  Janway's  Mills  was  narrow  and  far 
from  charitable  when  it  was  respectable;  its  point  of  view, 
when  it  was  not  respectable,  was  desperate.  Even  sinners, 
at  Janway's  Mills,  were  primitive  and  limited  in  outlook. 
They  did  not  excuse  themselves  with  specious  argument 
for  their  crimes  of  neglecting  church-going,  using  bad  lan- 
guage, hanging  about  bar-roomg,  and  loose  living.  They 

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were  not  brilliant  wrongdoers  and  made  no  attempt  at  de- 
fending themselves  or  pretending  that  they  did  not  know 
they  were  going  to  perdition.  The  New  England  mind  is 
not  broad  or  versatile,  and,  having  begun  life  in  a  Puritan 
atmosphere,  it  is  not  quick  to  escape  its  influence.  So- 
ciety at  the  Mills  recognised  no  social  distinction  which 
was  not  founded  upon  the  respectability  of  church-going 
and  the  observance  of  social  laws  made  by  church-goers; 
it  recognised  none  because  it  absolutely  knew  of  none.  The 
great  world  was  not  far  from  Janway's  Mills,  but  they  did 
not  touch  each  other.  Willowfield  was  near,  Boston  and 
New  York  themselves  were  not  far  distant,  but  the  curious 
fact  being  that  millions  of  human  minds  may  work  and 
grow  and  struggle  as  if  they  were  the  minds  of  dwellers 
upon  another  planet,  though  less  than  a  hundred  miles 
may  separate  them,  the  actual  lives,  principles,  and  signifi- 
cances of  the  larger  places  did  not  seem  to  touch  the  smaller 
one.  The  smaller  one  was  a  village  of  a  few  streets  of  small 
houses  which  had  grown  up  about  the  Mills  themselves. 
The  Mills  gave  employment  to  a  village  full  of  hands,  so  the 
village  gradually  evolved  itself.  It  was  populated  by  the 
uneducated  labouring  class;  some  were  respectable,  some 
were  dissolute  and  lived  low  and  gross  lives,  but  all  were 
uneducated  in  any  sense  which  implies  more  than  the 
power  to  read,  write,  and  make  a  few  necessary  calcula- 
tions. Most  of  them  took  some  newspaper.  They  read  of 
the  multi-millionaires  who  lived  in  New  York  and  Chicago 
and  California,  they  read  of  the  politicians  in  Washington, 
they  found  described  to  them  the  great  entertainments 
given  by  millionaires'  wives  and  daughters,  the  marvellous 
dresses  they  wore,  the  multifarious  ways  in  which  they 
amused  themselves,  but  what  they  read  seemed  so  totally 

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unlike  anything  they  had  ever  seen,  so  far  apart  from  their 
own  lives,  that  though  they  were  not  aware  of  the  fact,  the 
truth  was  that  they  believed  in  them  with  about  the  same 
degree  of  realisation  with  which  they  believed  in  what 
they  heard  in  the  pulpit  of  the  glories  of  the  New  Jerusa- 
lem. No  human  being  exists  without  an  ambition,  and 
the  ambition  of  Janway's  Millers  of  the  high-class  was  to 
possess  a  neat  frame-house  with  clean  Nottingham  lace 
curtains  at  the  windows,  fresh  oilcloth  on  the  floor  of  the 
front  hall,  furniture  covered  with  green  or  red  reps  in  the 
parlour,  a  tapestry  Brussels  carpet,  and  a  few  lithographs 
upon  the  walls.  It  was  also  the  desire  of  the  owners  of  such 
possessions  that  everyone  should  know  that  they  attended 
one  of  the  churches,  that  their  house-cleaning  was  done 
regularly,  that  no  member  of  the  family  frequented  bar- 
rooms, and  that  they  were  respectable  people.  It  was  an 
ambition  whicn  was  according  to  their  lights,  and  could  be 
despised  by  no  honest  human  being,  however  dull  it  might 
appear  to  him.  It  resulted  oftener  than  not  in  the  making 
of  excellent  narrow  lives  which  brought  harm  to  no  one. 
The  lives  which  went  wrong  on  the  street-corners  and  in 
the  bar-rooms  often  did  harm.  They  produced  discom- 
fort, unhappiness,  and  disorder;  but  as  it  is  also  quite 
certain  that  no  human  being  produces  these  things  with- 
out working  out  his  own  punishment  for  himself  while 
he  lives  on  earth,  the  ends  of  justice  were  doubtless  at- 
tained. 

If  a  female  creature  at  the  Mills  broke  the  great  social 
law,  there  was  no  leaning  towards  the  weakness  of  pity  for 
her,  Janway's  was  not  sufficiently  developed,  mentally,  to 
deal  with  gradations  or  analysis  of  causes  and  impelling 
powers.  The  girl  who  brought  forth  a  child  without  the 

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pale  of  orthodox  marriage  was  an  outcast  and  a  disgraced 
creature,  and  nobody  flinched  from  pronouncing  her  both. 

"  It's  disgustin',  that's  what  I  call  it,"  it  was  the  custom 
for  respectable  wives  and  mothers  to  say.  "  It's  disgustin'I 
A  nice  thing  she's  done  for  herself.  I  h'ain't  no  patience 
with  girls  like  her,  with  no  fear  o'  God  or  religion  in  them 
an'  no  modesty  and  decency.  She  deserves  whatever  comes 
to  her! " 

Usually  every  tragedy  befell  her  which  could  befall  a 
woman.  If  her  child  lived,  it  lived  the  life  of  wretchedness 
and  was  an  outcast  also.  The  outcome  of  its  existence  was 
determined  by  the  order  of  woman  its  mother  chanced  to 
be.  If  the  maternal  instinct  was  warm  and  strong  within 
her  and  she  loved  it,  there  were  a  few  chances  that  it  might 
fight  through  its  early  years  of  struggle  and  expand  into 
a  human  being  who  counted  as  one  at  least  among  the 
world's  millions.  Usually  the  mother  died  in  the  gutter  or 
the  hospital,  but  there  had  been  women  who  survived,  and 
when  they  did  so  it  was  often  because  they  made  a  battle  for 
their  children.  Sometimes  it  was  because  they  were  made 
of  the  material  which  is  not  easily  beaten,  and  then  they 
learned  as  the  years  went  by  that  the  human  soul  and  will 
may  be  even  stronger  than  that  which  may  seem  at  the 
outset  overwhelming  fate. 

When  the  girl  Susan  Chapman  fell  into  misfortune  and 
disgrace,  her  path  was  not  made  easy  for  her.  There  were 
a  few  months  when  the  young  mill  hand  who  brought 
disaster  upon  her,  made  love  to  her,  and  hung  about  her 
small  home,  sometimes  leaning  upon  the  rickety  gate  to 
talk  and  laugh  with  her,  sometimes  loitering  with  her  in 
the  streets  or  taking  her  to  cheap  picnics  or  on  rather 
rowdy  excursions.  She  wore  the  excited  and  highly  pleased 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

air  Seen  in  young  women  of  her  class  when  the  masculine 
creature  is  paying  court.  She  spent  her  wages  in  personal 
decoration,  she  bought  cheap  feathers  and  artificial  flowers 
and  remnants  on  "  bargain  days/'  and  decked  herself  with 
them.  Her  cheap,  good  looks  reached  their  highest  point 
because  she  felt  the  glow  of  a  promotive  triumph  and  her 
spirits  were  exhilarated.  She  was  nearer  happiness  than 
she  had  ever  been  before.  The  other  girls,  who  were  mill 
hands  like  herself,  were  full  of  the  usual  rather  envious 
jokes  about  her  possible  marriage.  To  be  married  was  to 
achieve  a  desirable  distinction  and  to  work  at  home  instead 
of  at  the  Mills.  The  young  man  was  not  an  absolute 
villain,  he  was  merely  an  ignorant,  foolish  young  ani- 
mal. At  first  he  had  had  inchoate  beliefs  in  a  domestic 
future  with  the  girl.  But  the  time  came  when  equally  in- 
choate ideas  of  his  own  manhood  led  him  to  grow  cool. 
The  New  England  atmosphere  which  had  not  influenced 
him  in  all  points,  influenced  him  in  the  matter  of  feeling 
that  the  woman  a  man  married  must  have  kept  herself  re- 
spectable. The  fact  that  he  himself  had  caused  her  fall 
from  the  plane  of  decency  was  of  comparatively  small  mo- 
ment. 

A  man  who  married  a  woman  who  had  not  managed  to 
keep  straight,  put  himself  into  a  sort  of  ridiculous  po- 
sition. He  lost  masculine  distinction.  This  one  ceased 
to  lean  on  the  gate  and  talk  at  night,  and  went  to  fewer 
picnics.  He  was  in  less  high  spirits,  and  so  was  the  girl. 
She  often  looked  pale  and  as  if  she  had  been  crying.  Then 
Jack  Williams  gave  up  his  place  at  the  Mill  and  left  the 
village.  He  did  not  tell  his  sweetheart.  The  morning  after 
he  left,  Susan  came  to  her  work  and  found  the  girls  about 
her  wearing  a  mysterious  and  interested  air. 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  What  are  you  whispering  about?  "  she  asked.  "  Whafs 
the  secret?  " 

u  'Tain't  no  secret/'  was  the  answer.  "  Most  everybody's 
heard  it,  and  I  guess  it  ain't  no  secret  to  you.  I  guess  he 
told  you  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go." 

"Who?  "she  asked. 

"Jack  Williams.  He's  gone  out  to  Chicago  to  work 
somewhere  there.  He  kept  it  pretty  dark  from  us,  but 
when  he  went  off  on  the  late  train  last  night,  Joe  Evans 
saw  him,  and  he  said  he'd  had  the  offer  of  a  first-rate  job 
and  was  going  to  it.  How  you  stare,  Sue!  Your  eyes  look 
as  if  they'd  pop  out  o'  yer  head." 

She  was  staring  and  her  skin  had  turned  blue-white. 
She  broke  into  a  short  hysteric  laugh  and  fell  down.  Then 
she  was  very  sick  and  fainted  and  had  to  be  taken  home 
trembling  so  that  she  could  scarcely  crawl  as  she  walked, 
with  great  tears  dropping  down  her  cold  face.  Janwa/s 
Mills  knew  well  enough  after  this  that  Jack  Williams  had 
deserted  her,  and  had  no  hesitation  in  suggesting  a  reason 
for  his  defection. 

The  months  which  followed  were  filled  with  the  torments 
of  a  squalid  Inferno.  Girls  who  had  regarded  her  with 
envy,  began  to  refuse  to  speak  to  her  or  to  be  seen  in  her 
company.  Jack  Williams's  companions  were  either  im- 
pudent or  disdainful,  the  married  women  stared  at  her  and 
commented  on  her  as  she  passed;  there  were  no  more  pic- 
nics or  excursions  for  her;  her  feathers  became  draggled 
and  hung  broken  in  her  hat.  She  had  no  relatives  in  the 
village,  having  come  from  a  country  place.  She  was  thank- 
ful that  she  had  not  a  family  of  aunts  on  the  spot,  because 
she  knew  they  would  have  despised  her  and  talked  her  over 
more  than  the  rest.  She  lived  in  a  bare  little  room  which 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

she  rented  from  a  poor  couple,  and  she  used  to  sit  alone 
in  it,  huddled  up  in  a  heap  by  the  window,  crying  for 
hours  in  the  evening  as  she  watched  the  other  girls  go  by 
laughing  and  joking  with  their  sweethearts.. 

One  night  when  there  was  a  sociable  in  the  little  frame 
Methodist  church  opposite,  and  she  saw  it  lighted  up  and 
the  people  going  in  dressed  in  their  best  clothes  and  excited 
at  meeting  each  other,  the  girls  giggling  at  the  sight  of 
their  favourite  young  men — just  as  she  had  giggled  six 
months  before — her  slow  tears  began  to  drip  faster  and 
the  sobs  came  one  upon  another  until  she  was  choked  by 
them  and  she  began  to  make  a  noise.  She  sobbed  and  cried 
more  convulsively,  until  she  began  to  scream  and  went  into 
something  like  hysterics.  She  dropped  down  on  her  face 
and  rolled  over  and  over,  clutching  at  her  breast  and  her 
sides  and  throwing  out  her  arms.  The  people  of  the  house 
had  gone  to  the  sociable  and  she  was  alone,  so  no  one  heard 
or  came  near  her.  She  shrieked  and  sobbed  and  rolled  over 
and  over,  clutching  at  her  flesh,  trying  to  gasp  out  words 
that  choked  her. 

"  0,  Lord! "  she  gasped,  wild  with  the  insensate  agony 
of  a  poor,  hysteria  torn,  untaught,  uncontrolled  thing,  "  I 
don't  know  what  Fve  done!  I  don't!  'Tain't  fair!  I  didn't 
go  to!  I  can't  bear  it!  He  h'ain't  got  nothin'  to  bear,  he 
ain't!  0,  Lord  God,  look  down  on  me!  " 

She  was  the  poor,  helpless  outcome  of  the  commonest 
phase  of  life,  but  her  garret  saw  a  ghastly  tragedy  as  she 
choked  through  her  hysterics.  Who  is  to  blame  for  and 
who  to  prevent  such  tragedies,  let  deep  thinkers  strive  to 
tell. 

The  day  after  this  was  the  one  on  which  little  Margery 
Latimer  came  into  her  life.  It  was  in  the  early  spring,  just 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

before  the  child  had  gone  to  Boston  to  begin  her  art  lessons. 
She  had  come  to  Janway's  Mills  to  see  a  poor  woman  who 
had  worked  for  her  mother.  The  woman  lived  in  the 
house  in  which  Susan  had  her  bare  room.  She  began  to 
talk  about  the  girl  half  fretfully,  half  contemptuously. 

"  She's  the  one  Jack  Williams  got  into  trouble  and  then 
left  to  get  out  of  it  by  herself  as  well  as  she  could/'  she 
said.  "  She  might  ha'  known  it.  Gals  is  fools.  She  can't 
work  at  the  Mills  any  more,  an'  last  night  when  we  was 
all  at  the  Sosherble,  she  seems  to've  had  a  spasm  o'  some 
kind;  she  can't  get  out  o'  bed  this  mornin'  and  lies  there 
lookin'  like  death  an'  inoanin'.  I  can't  'tend  to  her,  I've 
got  work  o'  my  own  to  do.  Lansy!  how  she  was  moanin' 
when  I  passed  her  door!  Seemed  like  she'd  kill  herself! " 

"  Oh,  poor  thing! "  cried  Margery;  "  let  me  go  up  to 
her." 

She  was  a  sensitive  creature,  and  the  colour  had  ebbed 
out  of  her  pretty  face. 

"  Lor,  no!  "  the  woman  cried;  "  she  ain't  the  kind  o'  gal 
you'd  oughter  be  doing  things  for,  she  was  allus  right  down 
common,  an'  she's  sunk  down  'bout  as  low  as  a  gal  can." 

But  Margery  went  up  to  the  room  where  the  moaning 
was  going  on.  She  stood  outside  the  door  on  the  landing- 
for  a  few  moments,  her  heart  trembling  in  her  side  before 
she  went  in.  Her  life  had  been  a  simple,  happy,  bright  one 
up  to  this  time.  She  had  not  seen  the  monster  life  close 
at  hand.  She  had  large,  childish  eyes  which  were  the 
colour  of  harebells  and  exquisitely  sympathetic  and  sweet. 
There  were  tears  in  them  when  she  gently  opened  the  door 
and  stood  timidly  on  the  threshold. 

"  Let  me,  please  let  me  come  in,"  she  said.  "  Don't  say 
I  mayn't." 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

The  moaning  and  low  choking  sobs  went  on,  and  in  a 
*ery  few  moments  they  so  wrought  upon  her,  that  she 
pushed  the  door  farther  open  and  entered  the  room.  What 
she  saw  was  a  barren,  common  little  place,  and  on  the  bed 
a  girl  lying  utterly  prostrated  by  an  hysteric  tempest  which 
had  lasted  hours.  Her  face  was  white  and  swollen  and 
covered  with  red  marks,  as  if  she  had  clutched  and  torn  it 
with  her  fingers,  her  dress  was  torn  open  at  the  bosom,  and 
her  hair  tumbled,  torn,  and  loose  about  the  pillow;  there 
was  a  discoloured  place  upon  her  forehead  which  was  set- 
tling into  a  bruise.  Her  eyes  were  puffed  with  crying  until 
they  were  almost  closed.  Her  breast  rose  with  short,  ex- 
hausted, but  still  convulsive  sobs.  Margery  felt  as  if  she 
was  drawn  into  a  vortex  of  agony.  She  could  not  resist  it. 
She  went  to  the  bed,  stood  still  a  second,  trembling,  and 
then  sank  upon  her  knees  and  put  her  face  down  upon  the 
wretched  hand  nearest  and  kissed  it  with  piteous  impulsive 
sympathy. 

"Oh!  don't  cry  like  that,"  she  said,  crying  herself .  "  Oh, 
don't!  Oh,  don't!  I'm  so  sorry  for  you — I'm  so  sorry  for 
you." 

She  did  not  know  the  girl  at  all,  she  had  never  even  heard 
of  her  before,  but  she  kissed  her  hand  and  cried  over  it  and 
fondled  it  against  her  breast.  She  was  one  of  those  human 
things  created  by  Nature  to  suffer  with  others,  and  for 
them,  and  through  them. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  it  was  before  the  girl  became 
sufficiently  articulate  to  speak  to  her.  She  herself  was 
scarcely  articulate  for  some  time.  She  could  only  try  to 
find  words  to  meet  a  need  so  far  beyond  her  ken.  She  had 
^ever  come  in  contact  with  a  woman  in  this  strait  before. 

But  at  last  Susan  was  lying  in  the  bed  instead  of  on  its 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

tossed  and  tumbled  outside.  Margery  had  done  the  near- 
est, simple  things  for  her.  She  had  helped  her  to  bathe 
her  face  with  cold  water,  to  undress  and  put  on  her  night- 
gown; she  had  prepared  her  narrow  bed  for  her  decently, 
and  smoothed  and  wound  up  her  hair.  Then  she  had  gone 
downstairs,  got  her  a  cup  of  tea,  and  sat  by  her  and  made 
her  drink  it.  Then  she  set  the  room  in  order  and  opened 
the  window  to  air  it. 

"  There  is  a  bruise  on  your  forehead/'  she  had  said,  as 
she  was  arranging  the  torn  hair.  "  You  must  have  struck 
it  against  something  when  you  were  ill  last  night." 

"  I  struck  it  against  the  wall,"  Susan  answered,  in  a 
monotonous  voice.  "  I  did  it  on  purpose.  I  banged  my 
head  against  the  wall  until  I  fell  down  and  was  sick." 

Margery's  face  quivered  again. 

"  Don't  think  about  it,"  she  said.  "  You  ought  not  to 
have  been  alone.  Some — some  friend  ought  to  have  been 
with  you." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  friends,"  Susan  answered.  "  I  don't 
know  why  you  came  up  to  me.  I  don't  guess  you  know 
what's  the  matter  with  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Margery.    "  You  are  in  great  trouble." 

"  It's  the  worst  kind  o'  trouble  a  woman  can  get  into," 
said  Susan,  the  muscles  of  her  face  beginning  to  be  drawn 
again.  "  I  don't  see  why — why  Jack  Williams  can  skip  off 
to  Chicago  to  a  new,  big  job  that's  a  stroke  o'  luck — an'  me 
left  lie  here  to  bear  everything — an'  be  picked  at,  an'  made 
fun  of,  an'  druv  mad  with  the  way  I'm  kicked  in  the  gutter. 
I  don't  see  no  right  in  it.  There  ain't  no  right  in  it;  I  don't 
believe  there's  no  God  anyhow;  I  won't  never  believe  it 
again.  No  one  can't  make  me.  If  I've  done  what  gives 
folks  a  right  to  cast  me  off,  so's  Jack  Williams." 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  You  haven't  pretended  to  love  a  person  and  then  run 
away  and  left  them  to — to  suffer/'  said  little  Margery,  on 
the  verge  of  sobs  again. 

"No,  I  haven't!"  said  the  girl,  her  tears  beginning  to 
stream  anew.  "  I'm  not  your  kind.  I'm  not  educated.  I'm 
only  a  common  mill  hand,  but  I  did  love  Jack  Williams 
all  I  knew  how.  He  had  such  a  nice  way  with  him — kind 
of  affectionate,  an' — an'  he  was  real  good-lookin'  too  when 
he  was  fixed  up.  If  I'd  been  married  to  him,  no  one  would 
have  said  nothin',  an' — an'  'tain't  nothin'  but  a  minister 
readin'  somethin'  anyhow — marryin'  ain't." 


187 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THIS  was  before  Margery  went  to  Boston  to  try  to  develop 
her  gift  for  making  pretty  sketches.  Her  father  and  mother 
and  her  brother  strained  every  nerve  to  earn  and  save  the 
money  to  cover  her  expenses.  She  went  away  full  of  inno- 
cent, joyous  hope  in  the  month  of  May.  She  boarded  in 
a  plain,  quiet  house,  and  had  two  rooms.  One  was  her  work- 
room and  studio.  She  worked  under  a  good-natured  artist, 
who  thought  her  a  rather  gifted  little  creature  and  used  to 
take  her  to  look  at  any  pictures  that  were  on  exhibition. 
Taking  into  consideration  her  youth  and  limited  advantages, 
she  made  such  progress  as  led  him  to  say  that  she  had  a 
future  before  her. 

She  had  never  deserted  Sue  Chapman  after  that  first  morn- 
ing in  which  she  had  gone  to  her  rescue.  Janway's  Mills 
was  bewildered  when  it  found  that  the  Reverend  Lucien 
Latimer's  sister  went  to  see  Jack  Williams'  deserted  sweet- 
heart, and  did  not  disdain  to  befriend  her  in  her  disgrace. 
The  church-going  element,  with  the  Nottingham  lace  cur- 
tains in  its  parlour  windows,  would  have  been  shocked,  but 
that  it  was  admitted  that  "  the  Latimers  has  always  been 
a  well-thought-of  family,  an'  all  of  'em  is  members  in  good 
standin'.  They're  greatly  respected  in  Willowfield;  even 
the  old  fam'lies  speak  to  'em  when  they  meet  'em  in  the 
street  or  at  Church. 

"  Not  that  I'd  be  willin'  for  my  Elma  Ann  to  'sociate 
with  a  girl  that's  gone  wrong.  Maybe  it's  sorter  different 
with  a  minister's  sister.  Ministers'  families  has  to  'sociate 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

out  o'  charity  an'  religion;  go  to  pray  with  'em,  an'  that, 
an'  read  the  Scripture  to  make  'em  sense  their  sinfulness 
an'  the  danger  they're  in." 

But  Margery  did  not  pray  with  Susan  Chapman,  or  read 
the  Bible  to  her.  The  girl  held  obstinately  to  her  statement 
of  unbelief  in  a  God,  and  Margery  did  not  feel  that  her  mood 
was  one  to  which  reading  the  Gospel  would  appeal.  If  she 
could  have  explained  to  her  the  justice  of  the  difference  be- 
tween Jack  Williams'  lot  and  her  own,  she  felt  they  might 
have  advanced  perhaps,  but  she  could  not.  She  used  to  go 
to  see  her  and  try  to  alleviate  her  physical  discomfort  and 
miserable  poverty.  She  saved  her  from  hunger  and  cold 
when  she  could  no  longer  work  at  all,  and  she  taught  her 
to  feel  that  she  was  not  utterly  without  a  friend. 

"  What  I'd  have  done  without  you,  God  knows — or  what 
ought  to  be  God,"  Sue  said.  "  He  didn't  care,  but  you  did. 
If  there  is  one,  He's  got  a  lot  to  learn  from  some  of  the 
people  He's  made  Himself.  '  After  His  own  image  created 
He  them ' — that's  what  the  Bible  says;  but  I  don't  believe 
it.  If  He  was  as  good  and  kind-hearted  as  the  best  of  us, 
He  wouldn't  sit  upon  His  throne  with  angels  singing  round 
an'  playin'  on  harps,  an'  Him  too  much  interested  to  see 
how  everythin's  sufferin'  down  below.  What  did  He  make 
us  for,  if  He  couldn't  look  after  us?  I  wouldn't  make  a 
thing  I  wouldn't  do  my  best  by — an'  I  ain't  nothin'  but 
a  factory  girl.  This — this  poor  thing  that's  goin'  to  be  born 
an'  hain't  no  right  to,  I'll  do  my  level  best  by  it — I  will. 
It  sha'n't  suffer,  if  I  can  help  it " — her  lips  jerking. 

Sometimes  Margery  would  talk  to  her  a  little  about  Jack 
Williams — or,  rather,  she  would  listen  while  Susan  talked. 
Then  Susan  would  cry,  large,  slow-rolling  tears  slipping 
down  her  cheeks. 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  don't  know  how — how  it  happened  like  this,"  she 
would  say.  "  It  seems  like  a  kind  o'  awful  dream.  I  don't 
know  nothin'.  He  was  common — just  like  I  am — an'  he 
didn't  know  much;  but  it  didn't  seem  like  he  was  a  bad 
feller — an'  I  do  b'lieve  he  liked  me.  Seemed  like  he  did, 
anyways.  They  say  he's  got  a  splendid  job  in  Chicago.  He 
won't  never  know  nothin'  about  what  happens." 

Margery  did  not  leave  her  unprovided  for  when  she  went 
to  Boston.  It  cost  very  little  to  keep  her  for  a  few  months 
in  her  small  room.  The  people  of  the  house  promised  to  be 
decently  kind  to  her.  Margery  had  only  been  away  from 
home  two  weeks  when  the  child  was  born.  The  hysterical 
paroxysms  and  violent  outbreaks  of  grief  its  mother  had 
passed  through,  her  convulsive  writhings  and  clutchings  and 
beating  of  her  head  against  the  walls  had  distorted  and  ex- 
hausted the  little  creature.  The  women  who  were  with  her 
said  its  body  looked  as  if  it  were  bruised  in  spots  all  over, 
and  there  was  a  purple  mark  on  its  temple.  It  breathed 
a  few  times  and  died. 

"  Good  thing,  too!  "  said  the  women.  "  There's  too  many 
in  the  world  that's  got  a  right  here.  It'd  hev'  had  to  go 
to  ruin." 

"  Good  thing  for  it"  said  Susan,  weakly  but  sullenly, 
from  her  bed;  "  but  if  it's  God  as  makes  'em,  how  did  He 
come  to  go  to  the  trouble  of  making  this  one  an'  sendin' 
it  out,  if  it  hadn't  no  right  to  come?  He  does  make  'em 
all,  doesn't  he?  You  wouldn't  darst  to  say  He  didn't — you, 
Mrs.  Hopp,  that's  a  church  member!  "  And  her  white  face 
actually  drew  itself  into  a  ghastly,  dreary  grin.  "  Lawsy! 
He's  kept  pretty  busy!  " 

When  she  was  able  to  stand  on  her  feet  she  went  back  to 
the  mill.  She  was  a  good  worker,  and  hands  were  needed. 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

The  girls  and  women  fought  shy  of  her,  and  she  had  no 
chance  of  enjoying  any  young  pleasures  or  comforts,  even 
if  she  had  not  been  too  much  broken  on  the  rack  of  the 
misery  of  the  last  year  to  have  energy  to  desire  them.  No 
young  man  wanted  to  be  seen  talking  to  her,  no  young 
woman  cared  to  walk  with  her  in  the  streets.  She  always 
went  home  to  her  room  alone,  and  sat  alone,  and  thought 
of  what  had  happened  to  her,  trying  to  explain  to  herself 
how  it  had  happened  and  why  it  had  turned  out  that  she 
was  worse  than  any  other  girl.  She  had  never  felt  like  a 
bad  girl.  No  one  had  ever  called  her  one  before  this  last 
year. 

Three  months  after  the  child  was  born  and  died,  Margery 
came  back  to  Willowfield  to  spend  a  week  at  home.  She 
came  to  see  Susan,  and  they  sat  together  in  the  tragic  little 
bare  room  and  talked.  Though  the  girl  had  been  so  deli- 
cately pretty  before  she  left  home,  Susan  saw  that  she  had 
become  much  prettier.  She  was  dressed  in  light,  softly 
tinted  summer  stuffs,  and  there  was  something  about  her 
which  was  curiously  flower-like.  Her  long-lashed,  harebell 
blue  eyes  seemed  to  have  widened  and  grown  lovelier  in  their 
innocent  look.  A  more  subtle  mind  than  Susan  Chapman's 
might  have  said  that  she  seemed  to  be  looking  farther  into 
Life's  spaces,  and  that  she  was  trembling  upon  the  verge 
of  something  unknown  and  beautiful. 

She  talked  about  Boston  and  the  happiness  of  her  life 
there,  and  of  her  work  and  her  guileless  girlish  hopes  and 
ambitions. 

"  I  am  doing  my  very  best,"  she  said,  a  spot  of  pink  flick- 
ering on  her  cheek;  "  I  work  as  hard  as  I  can,  but  you  see 
I  am  so  ignorant.  I  could  not  have  learned  anything  about 
art  in  Willowfield.  But  people  are  so  good  to  me — people 

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who  know  a  great  deal.  .There  is  one  gentleman  who  comes 
sometimes  to  see  Mr.  Barnard  at  the  studio.  He  is  so  won- 
derful, it  seems  to  me.  He  has  travelled,  and  knows  all 
about  the  great  galleries  and  the  pictures  in  them.  He 
talks  so  beautifully  that  everyone  listens  when  he  comes  in. 
Nobody  can  bear  to  go  on  with  work  for  fear  of  missing 
something.  You  would  think  he  would  not  notice  a  plain 
little  Willowfield  girl,  but  he  has  been  lovely  to  me,  Susan. 
He  has  even  looked  at  my  work  and  criticised  it  for  me, 
and  talked  to  me.  He  nearly  always  talks  to  me  a  little  when 
he  comes  in,  and  once  I  met  him  in  the  Gardens,  and  he 
stopped  and  talked  there,  and  walked  about  looking  at  the 
flowers  with  me.  They  had  been  planting  out  the  spring 
things,  and  it  was  like  being  in  fairyland  to  walk  about 
among  them  and  hear  the  things  he  said  about  pictures.  It 
taught  me  so  much." 

She  referred  to  this  friend  two  or  three  times,  and  once 
mentioned  his  name,  but  Susan  forgot  it.  She  was  such 
a  beautiful,  happy  little  thing,  and  seemed  so  exquisite  an 
expression  of  spring-like,  radiant  youth  and  its  innocent  joy 
in  living  that  the  desolate  and  stranded  creature  she  had 
befriended  could  think  of  nothing  but  her  own  awkward 
worship  and  the  fascination  of  the  flower-like  charm.  She 
used  to  sit  and  stare  at  her. 

"  Seems  so  queer  to  see  anyone  as  happy  an'  pretty  as 
you,"  she  broke  out  once.  "  Oh,  Lawsy,  I  hope  nothing 
won't  ever  come  to  spoil  it.  It  hadn't  ought  to  be  spoiled." 

A  month  or  so  later  Margery  paid  a  visit  to  her  home 
again.  She  stayed  a  longer  time,  but  Susan  only  saw  her 
once.  She  had  come  home  from  Boston  with  a  cold  and 
had  been  put  to  bed  for  a  day  or  two. 

One  morning  Susan  was  in  Willowfield  and  met  her  walk- 

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ing  in  a  quiet  street.  She  was  walking  slowly  and  looking 
down  as  she  went,  as  if  some  thought  was  abstracting  her. 
When  Susan  stopped  before  her,  she  looked  up  with  a  start. 
It  was  a  start  which  revealed  that  she  had  been  brought  back 
suddenly  from  a  distance,  as  it  were  a  great  distance. 

"  Oh,  Susan!  "  she  said.    "  Oh,  Susan!  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  in  her  pretty,  affectionate  way,  but 
she  was  actually  a  little  out  of  breath. 

"Fm  sorry  I  came  on  you  so  sudden,"  Susan  said,  "I 
startled  you." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  was — I  was  thinking  of  things 
that  seem  so  far  off.  When  I'm  in  Willowfield  it  seems  as 
if — as  if  they  can't  be  true.  Does  anything  ever  seem  like 
that  to  you,  Susan?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Susan.  One  of  her  hopeless  looks  leaped 
into  her  eyes.  She  did  not  say  what  the  things  were,  but 
she  stared  at  Margery  in  a  helpless,  vacant  way  for  a 
moment. 

"Are  you  wrell,  Susan,  and  have  you  got  work?"  asked 
Margery.  "  I  am  coming  to  see  you  to-morrow." 

They  spoke  of  common  things  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  their  separate  ways. 

Why  it  was  that  when  she  paid  the  promised  visit  the 
next  day  and  they  sat  together  in  their  old  way  and  talked, 
Susan  felt  a  kind  of  misery  creeping  slowly  upon  her,  she 
could  not  in  the  least  have  explained.  She  was  not  suffi- 
ciently developed  mentally  to  have  been  capable  of  saying 
to  herself  that  there  was  a  difference  between  this  visit  and 
the  last,  between  this  Margery  and  the  one  who  had  sat  with 
her  before.  Her  dull  thoughts  were  too  slow  to  travel  to 
a  point  so  definite  in  so  short  a  length  of  time  as  one  after- 
noon afforded. 

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"  Your  cold  was  a  pretty  bad  one,  wasn't  it?  "  she  asked, 
vaguely,  once. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer.  "  It  made  me  feel  weak.  But 
it  has  gone  now.  I  am  quite  well  again." 

After  that  Susan  saw  her  but  once  again.  As  time  went 
on  she  heard  a  vague  rumour  that  the  Latimers  were  anxious 
about  Margery's  health.  Just  at  that  time  the  mill  hands 
gossiped  a  good  deal  about  Willowfield,  because  the  Rever- 
end John  Baird  was  said  to  be  going  to  Europe.  That  led 
to  talk  on  the  subject  of  other  Willowfield  people,  and  the 
Latimers  among  them.  In  the  rare,  brief  letters  Margery 
wrote  to  her  protegee,  she  did  not  say  she  was  ill.  Once  she 
said  her  brother  Lucien  had  quite  suddenly  come  to  Boston 
to  see  how  she  was,  because  her  mother  imagined  she  must 
have  taken  cold. 

She  had  been  in  Boston  about  a  year  then.  One  afternoon 
Susan  was  in  her  room,  standing  by  her  bed  forlornly,  and, 
in  a  vacant,  reasonless  mood,  turning  over  the  few  coarse 
little  garments  she  had  been  able  to  prepare  for  her  child — 
a  few  common  little  shirts  and  nightgowns  and  gray  flannels 
— no  more.  She  heard  someone  at  the  door.  The  handle 
turned  and  the  door  opened  as  if  the  person  who  came  in  had 
forgotten  the  ceremony  of  knocking.  Susan  laid  down  on 
the  bed  the  ugly  little  night-dress  she  had  been  looking  at; 
it  lay  there  stiff  with  its  coarseness,  its  short  arms  stretched 
out.  She  turned  about  and  faced  Margery  Latimer,  who 
had  crossed  the  threshold  and  stood  before  her. 

Susan  uttered  a  low,  frightened  cry  before  she  could  speak 
a  word. 

The  girl  looked  like  a  ghost.  It  was  a  ghost  Susan 
thought  of  this  time,  and  not  a  flower.  The  pure  little  face 
was  white  and  drawn,  the  features  were  sharpened,  the  hare- 

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bell-coloured  eyes  had  almost  a  look  of  wildness;  it  was  as 
if  they  had  been  looking  at  something  frightening  for  a 
long  time,  until  they  could  not  lose  the  habit  of  expressing 
fear. 

"  Susan/'  she  said,  in  a  strange,  uncertain  voice,  "  you 
didn't  expect  to  see  me." 

Susan  ran  to  her. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  know  you  was  here.  I 
thought  you  was  in  Boston.  What's  the  matter?  Oh,  Lawsy, 
Margery,  what's  happened  to  make  you  look  like  this?  " 

"  Nobody  knows,"  answered  Margery.  "  They  say  it's 
the  cold.  They  are  frightened  about  me.  I'm  come  to  say 
good-bye  to  you,  Susan." 

She  sank  into  a  chair  and  sat  there,  panting  a  little. 

"  Lucien's  going  to  take  me  to  Europe,"  she  said,  her  voice 
all  at  once  seeming  to  sound  monotonous,  as  if  she  was  re- 
citing a  lesson  mechanically.  "  I  always  wanted  to  go  there 
— to  visit  the  picture  galleries  and  study.  They  think  the 
climate  will  be  good  for  me.  I've  been  coughing  in  the 
mornings — and  I  can't  eat." 

"  Do  they  think  you  might  be  going  into — a  consump- 
tion?" Susan  faltered. 

"  Mother's  frightened,"  said  Margery.  "  She  and  the  doc- 
tor don't  know  what  to  think.  Lucien's  going  to  take  me 
to  Europe.  It's  expensive,  but — but  he  has  managed  to 
get  the  money.  He  sold  a  little  farm  he  owned." 

"  He's  a  good  brother,"  said  Susan. 

Suddenly  Margery  began  to  cry  as  if  she  could  not  help  it. 

"  Oh,"  she  exclaimed.  "  No  one  knows  what  a  good 
brother  he  is — nobody  but  myself.  He  is  willing  to  give 
up  everything  to — to  save  me — and  to  save  poor  mother 
from  awful  trouble.  Sometimes  I  think  he  is  something 

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like  Christ — even  like  Christ!  He  is  willing  to  suffer  for 
other  people — for  their  pain — and  weakness — and  sin." 

It  was  so  evident  that  the  change  which  had  taken  place 
in  her  was  a  woeful  one.  Her  bright  loveliness  was  gone — 
her  simple,  lovable  happiness.  Her  nerves  seemed  all  un- 
strung. But  it  was  the  piteous,  strained  look  in  her  childlike 
eyes  which  stirred  poor  Susan's  breast  to  tumult. 

"  Margery,"  she  said,  almost  trembling,  "  if — if — if  you 
was  to  go  in  a  consumption  and  die — you're  not  like  me — 
you  needn't  be  afraid." 

The  next  moment  she  was  sorry  she  had  said  the  crude 
thing.  Margery  burst  into  a  passion  of  weeping.  Susan 
flew  to  her  and  caught  her  in  her  arms,  kneeling  down  by 
her. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  it,"  she  cried.  "  You're  too  ill 
to  be  made  to  think  of  such  things.  I  was  a  fool  not  to  see — 
Margery,  Margery,  don't!  " 

But  Margery  was  too  weak  to  be  able  to  control  her  sob- 
bing. 

"They  say  that — that  God  forgives  people,"  she  wept. 
"  I've  prayed  and  prayed  to  be  forgiven  for — for  my  sins. 
I've  never  meant  to  be  wicked.  I  don't  know — I  don't 
know  how " 

"  Hush!  "  said  Susan,  soothing  and  patting  her  trembling 
,  shoulder.  "  Hush,  hush!  If  there  is  a  God,  Margery,  He's 
a  heap  sight  better  than  we  give  Him  credit  for.  He  don't 
make  people  a'  purpose,  so  they  can't  help  things  somehow 
— an'  don't  know — an'  then  send  'em  to  burning  hell  for 
ftem'  the  way  He  made  'em.  We  wouldn't  do  it,  an'  He 
won't.  You  hain't  no  reason  to  be  afraid  of  dyin'." 

Margery  stayed  with  her  about  half  an  hour.  There  was 
a  curious  element  in  their  conversation.  They  spoke  as  if 

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their  interview  was  a  final  one.  Neither  of  them  actually 
expressed  the  thought  in  words,  but  a  listener  would  have 
felt  vaguely  that  they  never  expected  to  meet  each  other 
again  on  earth.  They  made  no  references  to  the  future;  it 
was  as  if  no  future  could  be  counted  upon.  Afterwards, 
when  she  was  alone,  Susan  realised  that  she  had  never  once 
said  "  when  you  come  back  from  Europe/' 

As  she  was  leaving  the  room,  Margery  passed  the  bed  on 
which  the  small,  coarse  garments  lay.  The  little  nightgown, 
with  its  short  sleeves  stiffly  outstretched,  seemed  to  arrest  her 
attention  specially.  She  caught  at  Susan's  dress  as  if  she 
was  unaware  that  she  made  the  movement  or  of  the  sharp 
shudder  which  followed  it. 

"  Those — are  its  things,  aren't  they,  Susan?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  Susan  answered,  her  sullen  look  of  pain  coming 
back  to  her  face. 

"  I — don't  know — how  people  bear  it!  "  exclaimed  Mar- 
gery. It  was  an  exclamation,  and  her  hand  went  quickly 
up  to  her  mouth  almost  as  if  to  press  it  back. 

"  They  don't  bear  it,"  said  Susan,  stonily.  "  They  have 
to  go  through  it — that's  all.  If  you  was  standin'  on  the 
gallows  with  the  rope  round  your  neck  and  the  trap-door 
under  your  feet,  you  wouldn't  be  bearin'  it,  but  the  trap- 
door would  drop  all  the  same,  an'  down  you'd  plunge — into- 
the  blackness." 

It  was  on  this  morning,  on  her  way  through  the  streets, 
that  Margery  dropped  in  a  dead  faint  upon  the  pavement, 
and  Miss  Amory  Starkweather,  passing  in  her  carriage, 
picked  her  up  and  carried  her  home. 

Susan  Chapman  never  saw  her  again.  Some  months  after- 
wards came  the  rumour  that  she  had  died  of  consumption 
in  Italy. 

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CHAPTER  XVII 

r,  in  accordance  with  Baird's  instructions,  Susan 
Chapman  took  the  note  to  Miss  Starkweather,  she  walked 
through  the  tree-shaded  streets,  feeling  as  if  she  had  sud- 
denly found  herself  in  a  foreign  country.  To  the  inhabi- 
tants of  Janway's  Mills,  certain  parts  of  Willowfield  stood 
for  wealth,  luxury,  and  decorous  splendour.  The  Mills, 
which  lived  within  itself,  was  easily  impressed.  Its — occa- 
sionally resentful — respect  for  Willowfield  was  enormous. 
It  did  not  behold  it  as  a  simple  provincial  town,  whose  busi- 
ness establishments  were  primitive,  and  whose  frame  houses, 
even  when  surrounded  by  square  gardens  with  flower-beds 
adorning  them,  were  merely  comfortable  middle-class  abodes 
of  domesticity.  It  was  awed  by  the  Willowfield  Times,  it 
revered  the  button  factory,  and  bitterly  envied  the  carriages 
driven  and  the  occasional  festivities  held  by  the  families  of 
the  representatives  of  these  monopolies.  The  carriages  were 
sober  and  middle-aged,  and  so  were  the  parties,  but  to  Jan- 
way's  Mills  they  illustrated  wealth  and  gaiety.  People  drove 
about  in  the  vehicles  and  wore  fine  clothes  and  ate  cakes  and 
ice-cream  at  the  parties — neither  of  which  things  had  ever 
been  possible  or  ever  would  become  possible  to  Janway's. 

And  Susan,  who  had  been  a  Pariah  and  an  outcast  at  the 
Hills,  was  walking  through  the  best  streets,  carrying  a  note 
from  the  popular  minister  to  the  rich  Miss  Starkweather, 
who  had  an  entire  square  white  frame  house  and  garden, 
which  were  her  own  property. 

The  girl  felt  a  little  sullen  and  a  little  frightened.  She 
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did  not  know  what  would  happen  to  her;  she  did  not  know 
how  she  would  be  expected  to  carry  herself  in  a  house  so 
representative  of  wealth  and  accustomedness  to  the  good 
things  of  life.  Perhaps  if  she  had  not  been  desperate,  and 
also,  if  she  had  not  known  that  Miss  Starkweather  had  been 
fond  of  Margery,  she  would  have  evaded  going  to  her. 

"  I  wonder  what  she'll  say  to  me/'  she  thought.  "  They 
say  she's  queer." 

She  still  felt  uncertain  and  resentful  when  she  stood  upon 
the  threshold  and  rang  the  bell.  She  presented  a  stolid 
countenance  to  the  maid  servant  who  opened  the  door  and 
received  her  message.  When  she  was  at  last  taken  to  Miss 
Amory,  she  went  with  an  unresponding  bearing,  and,  being 
led  into  a  cheerful  room  where  the  old  woman  sat,  stood 
before  her  waiting,  as  if  she  had  really  nothing  to  do  with 
the  situation. 

Miss  Amory  looked  rather  like  some  alert  old  hawk,  less 
predatory  by  instinct  than  those  of  his  species  usually  are. 

"  You  are  Susan  Chapman,  and  come  from  Mr.  Baird," 
she  said. 

Susan  nodded. 

"  He  says  he  met  you  at  Mr.  Latimer's." 

"  Yes.  I  went  there  to  ask  something.  I  couldn't  bear 
not  to  know — no  more  than  I  did." 

"  About ?  "  asked  Miss  Amory. 

"  About  Margery,"  her  voice  lowering  unconsciously. 

"  How  much  did  you  know  ?  "  Miss  Amory  asked  again. 

"  Nothin',"  rather  sullenly,  "  but  that  she  was  ill — an* 
went  away  an'  died." 

"In  Italy,  they  say,"  put  in  Miss  Amory — "lying  on 
a  sofa  before  an  open  window — on  a  lovely  day,  when  the 
eun  was  setting." 

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Susan  Chapman  started  a  little,  and  her  face  changed. 
The  unresponsiveness  melted  away.  There  was  something 
like  a  glow  of  relief  in  her  look.  She  became  human  and 
lost  sight  of  Miss  Amory's  supposed  grandeur. 

"Was  it  like  that?  "she  exclaimed.  "Was  it?  I'm  thank- 
ful to  you  for  telling  me.  Somehow  I  couldn't  ask  properly 
when  I  was  face  to  face  with  her  brother.  You  can't  talk 
to  him.  I  never  knew  where — or  how — it  was.  I  wanted 
to  find  out  if — if  it  was  all  right  with  her.  I  wanted  to 
know  she  hadn't  suffered." 

"  So  did  I,"  Miss  Amory  answered.  "  And  that  was  what 
they  told  me." 

She  passed  her  withered  hand  across  her  face. 

"  I  was  fond  of  her,"  she  said. 

"  I'd  reason  to  be/'  returned  Susan.  "  She  was  only  a 
delicate  little  young  thing — but  she  came  an'  stayed  by  me 
when  I  was  in  hell  an'  no  one  else  would  give  me  a  drop 
of  water  to  cool  my  tongue." 

"  I  know  something  about  that,"  said  Miss  Amory;  "  I 
have  heard  it  talked  of.  Where's  your  child?  " 

Susan  did  not  redden,  but  the  hard  look  came  back  to 
her  face  for  a  moment. 

"It  didn't  live  but  a  few  minutes,"  she  answered. 

"  What  are  you  doing  for  your  living?  " 

A  faint  red  showed  itself  on  the  girl's  haggard  cheeks, 
and  she  stared  at  her  with  indifferent  blankness. 

"  I  worked  in  the  mill  till  my  health  broke  down  for  a 
spell,  an'  I  had  to  give  up.  I'm  better  now,  but  I've  not 
got  a  cent  to  live  on,  an'  my  place  was  filled  up  right  away." 

"Where's  the  man?"  Miss  Amory  demanded. 

"  I  don't  know.  I've  never  heard  a  word  of  him  since 
he  slid  off  to  Chicago." 

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"  Humph!  "  said  Miss  Amory. 

For  a  moment  or  so  she  sat  silent,  thinking.  She  held  her 
chin  in  her  hand  and  pinched  it.  Presently  she  looked  up. 

"  Could  you  come  and  live  with  me  for  a  month?  "  she 
enquired.  "  I  believe  we  might  try  the  experiment.  I  dare- 
say  you  would  rub  me  when  I  want  rubbing,  and  go  errands 
and  help  me  up  and  down  stairs  and  carry  things  for  me. 
It  just  happens  that  my  old  Jane  has  been  obliged  to  leave 
me  because  she's  beginning  to  be  as  rheumatic  as  I  am 
myself,  and  her  daughter  offers  her  a  good  home.  Would 
you  like  to  try?  I  don't  promise  to  do  more  than  make  the 
experiment." 

The  girl  flushed  hot  this  time,  as  she  looked  down  on 
the  floor. 

"  You  may  guess  whether  I'm  likely  to  say  f  yes '  or  not;" 
she  said.  "  I  ain't  had  a  crust  to-day.  I  believe  I  could 
learn  to  suit  you.  But  I  never  expected  anything  as  good 
as  this  to  happen  to  me.  Thank  you,  ma'am.  May  I — 
when  must  I  come  ?  " 

"  Take  off  your  bonnet  and  go  and  have  your  dinner,  and 
stay  now,"  answered  Miss  Amory. 

When  John  Baird  called  later  in  the  day,  Miss  Amory  was 
walking  in  the  sun  in  her  garden  and  Susan  was  with  her, 
supporting  her  stiff  steps.  She  had  been  fed,  her  dress  had 
been  changed  for  a  neat  print,  and  the  dragged  lines  of  her 
face  seemed  already  to  have  relaxed.  She  no  longer  wore 
the  look  of  a  creature  who  is  hungry  and  does  not  know 
how  long  her  hunger  may  last  and  how  much  worse  it  may 
become. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Amory,"  Baird  said 
when  he  joined  her,  and  he  said  it  almost  impetuously.  To- 
day he  was  in  the  state  of  mind  when  even  vicarious  good 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

deeds  are  a  support  and  a  consolation.  To  have  been  a  means 
of  doing  a  good  turn  even  to  this  stray  creature  was  a  com- 
fort. 

Miss  Amory  removed  her  hand  from  Susan's  arm  and 
allowed  Baird  to  place  it  on  his  own.  The  girl  went  away 
in  obedience  to  a  gesture. 

"  She  will  do,"  said  Miss  Amory,  "  and  it  is  a  home  for 
her.  She's  not  stupid.  If  she  fulfils  the  promise  of  her 
first  day  I  may  end  by  interesting  myself  in  developing  her 
brains.  She  has  brains.  The  gray  matter  is  there,  but  it 
has  never  moved  much  so  far.  It  will  be  interesting  to  set 
it  astir.  But  it  was  not  that  I  thought  of  when  I  took  her." 

"  You  took  her  out  of  the  kindness  of  your  heart,"  said 
Baird. 

"  I  took  her  for  that  poor,  dead  child's  sake,"  returned 
Miss  Amory. 

"  For "  Baird  began. 

"  For  Margery's  sake,"  put  in  Miss  Amory.  "  Margery 
Latimer.  When  Susan  was  in  trouble  the  child  was  a  tender 
little  angel  to  her.  Lord!  what  a  pure  little  heart  it  was!  " 

"  As  pure  as  young  Eve's  in  the  Garden  of  Eden — as  pure 
as  young  Eve's,"  murmured  Baird. 

"Just  that!"  said  Miss  Amory,  rather  sharply.  "How 
do  you  know  it?"  And  she  turned  and  looked  at  him. 
"  You  have  heard  her  brother  say  a  good  deal  of  her." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  Baird  answered.  "  She  seems  to  have  been 
the  life  of  him." 

"  Well,  well!  "  with  emotional  abruptness.  "  I  took  this 
girl  for  her  sake.  Her  short  life  was  not  wasted  if  another's 
is  built  upon  it.  That's  one  of  my  fantastic  fancies,  I  sup- 
pose. Stop  a  minute." 

The  old  woman  paused  a  few  moments  on  the  garden 
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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

walk  and  turned  her  face  upward  to  look  at  the  blue  height 
and  expanse  of  sky.  There  was  a  shade  of  desperate  appeal 
or  question  on  her  uplifted,  rugged  countenance. 

"  When  the  world  gets  too  much  for  me,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  lose  my  patience  with  the  senselessness  of  the  tragedy  of 
it,  I  get  a  sort  of  courage  from  looking  up  like  this — into 
the  height  and  the  still,  clear  blueness.  It  sends  no  answer 
back  to  me — that  my  human  brain  can  understand — but  it 
makes  me  feel  that  perhaps  there  is  no  earth  at  all.  I  get 
out  of  it  and  away." 

"  I  know — I  know — though  I  am  not  like  you,"  Baird 
said,  slowly. 

Miss  Amory  came  back  to  earth  with  a  curious  look  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  I  should  think  that  perhaps  you 
are  one  of  those  who  know.  But  one  has  to  have  been  des- 
perate before  one  turns  to  it  as  a  resource.  It's  a  last  one 
— and  the  unmerciful  powers  only  know  why  we  should 
feel  it  a  resource  at  all.  As  I  said,  it  does  not  answer  back. 
And  we  want  answers — answers." 

Then  they  went  on  walking. 

"  That  poor  thing  has  been  a  woman  at  least,"  said  Miss 
Amory.  "  I  have  been  a  sort  of  feminine  automaton.  I 
have  been  respectable  and  she  has  not.  All  good  women- 
are  not  respectable  and  all  respectable  women  are  not  good. 
That's  a  truism  so  absolute  that  it  is  a  platitude,  and  yet 
there  still  exist  people  to  whom  it  would  appear 'a  novel 
statement.  That  poor  creature  has  loved  and  had  her  heart 
"broken.  She  has  suffered  the  whole  gamut  of  things.  She 
has  been  a  wife  without  a  name,  a  mother  without  a  child. 
She  is  full  of  crude  tragedy.  And  I  have  found  out  already 
that  she  is  good — good." 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  What  is  goodness?  "  asked  Baird. 

Miss  Amory  gave  him  another  of  her  sharp  looks. 

"  You  are  drawing  me  out,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not  really 
worth  it.  GoodnessMs  quite  different  from  respectability. 
Respectability  is  a  strict  keeping  of  the  laws  men  have  made 
to  oblige  other  men  to  do  or  not  to  do  the  things  they  want 
done  or  left  undone.  The  large  meaning  of  the  law  is  pun- 
ishment. No  law,  no  punishment;  no  punishment,  no  law. 
And  man  made  both  for  man.  If  you  keep  man's  law  you 
Will  be  respectable,  but  you  may  not  be  good.  Jesus  Christ 
tvas  not  respectable — no  one  will  deny  that.  Goodness,  after 
all,  means  doing  all  kindness  to  all  creatures,  and,  above  all, 
doing  no  wrong  to  any.  That's  all.  Are  you  good?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  am  not." 

"  You  would  probably  find  it  more  difficult  to  be  so  than 
I  should/'  she  responded.  "  And  I  find  it  hard  enough — 
without  being  handicapped  by  beauty  and  the  pleasure-lov- 
ing temperament.  You  were  started  well  on  the  road  to  the 
devil  when  you  were  born.  Your  very  charms  and  virtues 
were  ready  to  turn  out  vices  in  disguise.  But  when  such 

things  happen "  and  she  shrugged  her  lean  shoulders. 

"  As  we  have  no  one  else  to  dare  to  blame,  we  can  only  blame 
ourselves.  In  a  scheme  so  vague  every  man  must  be  his 
own  brake." 

Baird  drew  a  sharp  breath.  "  If  one  only  knew  that  early 
enough,"  he  exclaimed. 

Miss  Amory  laughed  harshly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  part  of  the  vagueness  of  the  scheme — 
if  it  is  a  scheme — is  that  it  takes  half  a  lifetime  to  find  it 
out.  Before  that,  we  are  always  either  telling  ourselves  that 
we  are  not  going  to  do  any  harm,  or  that  we  are  under  the 
guidance  of  a  merciful  Providence." 

204 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

"  That  we  are  not  going  to  do  any  harm,"  Baird  repeated, 
"  that  we  are  not  going  to  do  any  harm.  And  suddenly  it's 
done." 

"  And  can't  be  undone,"  Miss  Amory  added.    "  That's  it." 

The  girl,  Susan  Chapman,  was  watching  them  from  a  win- 
dow as  they  walked  and  talked.  She  bit  her  lips  anxiously 
as  she  stood  behind  the  curtain.  She  was  trying  to  imagine 
what  they  might  be  saying  to  each  other.  Suppose  it  was 
something  which  told  against  her.  And  why  should  it  not 
be  so?  What  good  could  be  said?  Janway's  Mills  had  borne 
in  upon  her  the  complete  sense  of  her  outcast  state.  While 
professing  a  republican  independence  of  New  England  spirit, 
the  place  figuratively  touched  its  forehead  to  the  earth  be- 
fore Miss  Starkweather.  She  lived  on  an  income  inherited 
from  people  who  had  owned  mills  instead  of  working  them; 
who  employed — and  discharged — hands.  She  would  have 
been  regarded  as  an  authority  on  any  subject,  social  or  moral. 
And  yet  it  was  she  who  had  spoken  the  first  lenient  word 
to  a  transgressor  of  the  unpardonable  type.  Susan  had  been 
dumfounded  at  first,  and  then  she  had  begun  to  be  afraid 
that  the  leniency  arose  from  some  mistake  Miss  Amory 
would  presently  discover. 

"  Perhaps  he's  heard  and  he's  telling  her  now,"  she  said, 
breathlessly,  as  she  looked  into  the  garden.  "  Maybe  she'll 
come  in  and  order  me  out."  She  looked  down  at  her  clean 
dress,  and  a  sob  rose  in  her  throat  at  the  realisation  of  the 
mere  physical  comfort  she  had  felt  during  the  last  hour  or 
two — the  comfort  of  being  fed  and  clothed  and  enclosed 
within  four  walls.  If  she  was  to  be  cast  back  into  outer 
darkness  again  it  would  be  better  to  know  at  once. 

When  Baird  had  gone  away  and  Miss  Amcry  was  sitting 
by  her  window,  Susan  appeared  before  her  again  with  an 

205 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

ashen  complexion  and  a  set  look.    She  stood  a  moment,  hesi- 
tating, her  hands  clasping  her  elbows  behind  her  back. 

"  You  want  to  say  something  to  me?  "  said  Miss  Amory/ 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  answered.  "  Yes,  I  do — an'  I  don't  know 
how.  Are  you  sure,  ma'am,  are  you  sure  you  know  quite 
how  bad  I  have  been?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Amory;  "  sit  down  and  tell  me,  Susan." 

She  said  it  with  an  impartiality  so  serenely  free  from  con- 
demnation that  Susan's  obedient  sitting  down  was  almost 
entirely  the  result  of  not  being  able  to  stand  up.  She,  so 
to  speak,  fell  into  a  chair  and  leaned  forward,  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know,"  she  whispered. 

"  By  experience  I  know  next  to  nothing,"  Miss  Amory 
answered,  "  but  my  imagination  and  my  reason  tell  me  a 
great  deal.  You  were  not  married  and  you  had  a  child. 
You  lost  your  health  and  your  work 

"I  would  have  worked,"  said  the  girl  from  behind  her 
hands,  sobbingly,  but  without  tears.  "  Oh,  I  would  have 
worked  till  I  dropped — I  did  work  till  I  dropped.  I  kept 
fainting — Oh!  I  would  have  been  glad  and  thankful  and 
grateful " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Amory,  "  life  got  worse  and  worse — 
they  all  treated  you  as  if  you  were  a  dog.  Those  common 
virtuous  people  are  like  the  torturers  of  the  Inquisition. 
You  were  hungry  and  cold — cold  and  hungry " 

"  You  don't  know  what  it's  like,"  Susan  moaned.  "  Yon 
don't  know.  When  you  get  sick  and  hollow  and  cramped, 
and  stagger  about  in  your  bare  room — and  call  out  to  your- 
self to  ask  what  made  you  and  where  is  it.  And  the  wind's 
like  ice — and  you  huddle  in  a  heap " 

"And  there  are  lights  in  the  streets,"  said  Miss  Amory, 
206 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  and  it  seems  as  if  there  must  be  something  there  to  be 
given  to  you  by  somebody — somebody.  And  you  go  out," 

Susan  got  up,  panting,  and  stared  at  her. 

"  You  do  know/'  she  cried,  almost  with  passion.  "  Some- 
how you've  found  out  what  it's  like.  I  wanted  you  to 
know.  I  don't  want  you — not  to  understand  and  then 
of  a  sudden  to  send  me  away.  I'm  so  afraid  of  you  sending 
me  away." 

"  I  shall  not  send  you  away  for  anything  you  have  done 
in  the  past,"  said  Miss  Amory. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  in  the  future, 
if  you  hadn't  taken  me  in,"  Susan  said.  "  Perhaps  I  should 
have  thrown  myself  under  a  train.  But,  oh!  "  with  starting 
dampness  in  her  skin,  which  she  wiped  off  with  a  sick  gest- 
ure, "I  did  hate  to  let  myself  think  of  it.  It  wasn't  the 
being  killed — that's  nothing — but  feeling  yourself  crushed 
and  torn  and  twisted — I  used  to  stand  and  shake  all  over 
thinking  of  it.  And  I  couldn't  have  gone  on.  I  hated 
myself — I  hated  everything — most  of  all  I  hated  the  Thing 
that  made  me.  What  right  had  it?  I  hadn't  done  nothing 
to  it  before  I  was  born.  Seemed  like  it  had  made  me  just 
for  the  fun  of  pushing  me  under  them  wheels  and  seeing 
them  tear  and  grind  me.  Oh!  how  I  hated  it!  " 

"  So  have  I,"  said  Miss  Amory,  her  steady  eyes  looking 
more  like  a  hawk's  than  ever. 

Susan  stared  more  than  before.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
have  hated  Jack  Williams,"  she  went  on,  her  throat  evi- 
dently filling,  "but  I  never  did.  I  loved  him.  Seemed 
like  I  was  just  his  wife,  that  it  did.  I  believe  it  always 
will.  That's  the  way  girls  get  into  trouble.  Some  man 
that's  got  an  affectionate  way  makes  'em  believe  they're 
as  good  as  married.  An'  then  they  find  out  it's  all  a  lie." 

207 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Perhaps  some  day  you  may  see  Jack  Williams  again," 
said  Miss  Amory. 

"  He  wouldn't  look  at  me,"  answered  Susan. 

"Perhaps  you  wouldn't  look  at  him,"  Miss  Amory  re- 
marked, with  speculative  slowness. 

"  Yes,  I  would,"  said  Susan,  "  yes  I  would.  I  couldn't 
trust  him  same  as  I  did  before — 'cause  he's  proved  he  ain't 
to  be  trusted.  But  if  he  wanted  me  to  marry  him  I  couldn't 
hold  out,  Miss  Starkweather." 

"  Couldn't  you?  "  Miss  Amory  said,  still  speculative.  "  No 
• — perhaps  you  couldn't." 

The  girl  wiped  her  eyes  and  added,  slowly,  almost  as  if 
she  was  thinking  aloud: 

"I'm  not  one  of  the  strong  ones — I'm  not  one  of  the 
strong  ones — no  more  than  little  Margery  was." 

She  said  the  last  words  with  a  kind  of  unconscious  con- 
sciousness. While  she  uttered  them  her  mind  had  evidently 
turned  back  to  other  times — not  her  own,  but  little  Mar- 
gery's. 

Miss  Amory  drew  a  deep  breath.  She  took  up  her  knit- 
ting. She  asked  a  question. 

"You  knew  her  very  well — Margery?" 

Susan  drew  her  chair  closer  and  looked  in  the  old  face 
with  uncertain  eyes. 

"  Miss  Starkweather,"  she  said,  "  do  you  think  that  a 
girl's  being — like  me — would  make  her  evil-minded? 
Would  it  make  her  suspicion  things,  and  be  afraid  of  them 
— when  there  wasn't  nothin'  ?  I  should  think  that  it  would," 
quite  wistfully. 

"  It  might,"  answered  Miss  Amory,  her  knitting-needles 
flying;  "  but  for  God's  sake  don't  call  yourself  evil-minded. 
You'd  be  evil-minded  if  you  were  glad  to  suspect — not  if 
you  were  sorry  and  afraid." 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Glad!  "  with  a  groan.  "  Oh,  Lord,  I  guess  not.  But 
I  might  be  all  wrong  all  the  same,  mightn't  I  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  might." 

"  I  loved  her — oh,  Lord,  I  did  love  her!  I'd  reason  to," 
the  girl  went  on,  and  her  manner  had  the  effect  of  fright- 
ened haste.  "  I've  suffered  awful  sometimes — thinkin'  in  the 
night  and  prayin'  there  wasn't  nothin'.  She  was  such  a  deli- 
cate, innocent  little  thing.  It  would  have  killed  her." 

"  What  were  you  afraid  of?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Susan  answered,  hysterically.  "  I 
don't.  I  only  knew  she  couldn't  bear  nothin'  like — like 
lyin'  awake  nights  gaspin'  an'  fightin'  with  awful  fear.  She 
couldn't — she  couldn't." 

"  But  there  are  girls — women,  who  have  to  bear  it,"  said 
Miss  Amory.  "  Good  God,  who  have  to!  " 

"  Yes — yes — yes,"  cried  Susan.  She  drew  her  hand  across 
her  brow  as  if  suddenly  it  felt  damp,  and  for  a  moment  her 
eyes  looked  wild  with  a  memory  of  some  awful  thing.  "  I 
told  her  so,"  she  said. 

Miss  Amory  Starkweather  turned  in  her  chair  with  some- 
thing like  a  start. 

"  You  told  her  so,"  she  exclaimed. 

Susan  stared  out  of  the  window  and  her  voice  fell. 

"  I  didn't  go  to,"  she  answered.  "  It  was  like  this.  That 
last  time  she  came  to  see  me — to  tell  me  how  ill  she  was 
and  how  Lucien  was  going  to  take  her  away — I'd  been  look- 
in'  at  the  little  clothes  I'd  got  ready  for — it."  The  tears 
began  to  roll  fast  down  her  cheeks.  "  Oh,  Miss  Stark- 
weather! they  was  lyin'  on  the  bed — an'  she  saw  'em  an* 
turned  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"  Ugh! "  the  sound  broke  from  Miss  Amory  like  a  short, 
involuntary  groan. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"She  said  she  didn't. know  how  people  could  bear  it," 
Susan  hurried  on,  "  an'  1  said — just  like  you  did — that  they 
had  to  bear  it." 

She  suddenly  hid  her  face  in  her  arms. 

"  You  were  thinking  of  yourself,"  said  Miss  Amory.  She 
felt  and  looked  a  little  sick. 

"  Yes/'  said  Susan,  "  I  was  thinkin'  of  how  it  is  when 
a  girl's  goin'  to  have  a  child  an'  can't  get  away  from  it — 
can't — can't.  She's  got  to  go  through  with  it — an'  no  one 
can't  save  her.  But  I  suppose  it  made  her  think  of  her  death 
that  was  comin' — her  death  that  I  b'lieve  she  knowed  she 
was  struck  for.  When  I'd  said  it  she  looked  like  some  little 
hunted  animal  dogs  was  after — that  had  run  till  its  breath 
was  gone  an'  its  eyes  was  startin'  from  its  head.  Her  little 
chest  went  up  an'  down  with  pantin'.  I  didn't  wonder  when 
I  heard  after  that  she'd  dropped  in  the  street  in  a  dead  faint." 

"Was  that  the  day  I  picked  her  up  as  she  lay  on  the 
pavement  ?  "  Miss  Amory  asked. 

Susan  nodded,  her  face  still  hidden. 

Old  Miss  Starkweather  put  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  on 
the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  She  has  had  time  to  forget,"  she  said,  rather  as  if  she 
was  out  of  breath — "forget  and  grow  quiet.  She  is  dust 
by  now — peaceful  dust.  Let  us — my  good  girl — let  us  re- 
member that  happy  story  of  how  she  died." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Susan,  "  in  Italy — lying  before  the  open 
window — with  the  sunset  all  rosy  in  the  sky." 

But  her  head  rested  on  her  folded  arms  upon  her  knee, 
and  she  sobbed  a  low,  deep  sob. 


210 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JUST  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  Civil  War,  Delisle- 
ville  had  been  provided  with  a  sensation  in  a  piece  of  singu- 
larly unexpected  good  fortune  which  befell  one  of  its  most 
prominent  citizens.  It  was  indeed  good  fortune,  wearing 
somewhat  the  proportions  of  a  fairy  tale,  and  that  such  things 
could  happen  in  Delisleville  and  to  a  citizen  who  possessed 
its  entire  approval  was  considered  vaguely  to  the  credit  of 
the  town. 

One  of  the  facts  which  had  always  been  counted  as  an 
added  dignity  to  the  De  Willoughbys  had  been  their  well- 
known  possession  of  property  in  land.  "  Land  "  was  always 
felt  to  be  dignified,  and  somehow  it  seemed  additionally  so 
when  it  gained  a  luxuriously  superfluous  character  by  merely 
lying  in  huge,  uncultivated  tracts,  and  representing  nothing 
but  wide  areas  and  taxes. 

"  Them  big  D'Willerbys  of  D'lisleville  owns  thousands  of 
acres  as  never  brings  'em  a  cent/'  Mr.  Stamps  had  said  to 
his  friends  at  the  Cross-roads  at  the  time  Big  Tom  had  first 
appeared  among  them.  It  was  Mr.  Stamps  who  had  astutely 
suggested  that  the  stranger  was  possibly  "  kin  "  to  the  De- 
lisleville family,  and  in  his  discreet  pursuit  of  knowledge  he 
had  made  divers  discoveries. 

"  'Twarn't  Jedge  D'Willerby  bought  the  land,"  he  went 
on  to  explain,  "'n'  it  seems  like  he  would  hev  bin  a  fool 
to  hev  done  it,  bein'  as  'tain't  worked  an'  brings  in  nothin'. 
But  ye  never  know  how  things  may  turn  out.  'Twas  the 

211 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Jedge's  gran'father,  old  Isham  D'Willerby  bought  it  fer  a 
kinder  joke.  Some  said  he  was  blind  drunk  when  he  done 
it,  but  he  warn't  so  drunk  but  what  he  got  a  cl'ar  title,  an' 
he  got  it  mighty  cheap  too.  Folks  ses  as  he  use  ter  laugh 
an'  say  he  war  goin'  to  find  gold  on  it,  but  he  never  dug 
fer  none — nor  fer  crops  nuther,  an'  thar  it  lies  to-day  in  the 
mountains,  an'  no  one  goin'  nigh  it." 

In  truth,  Judge  De  Willoughby  merely  paid  his  taxes  upon 
it  from  a  sense  of  patriarchal  pride. 

"  My  ancestor  bought  it,"  he  would  say.  "  I  will  hand 
it  to  my  sons.  In  England  it  would  be  an  estate  for  an 
earldom,  here  it  means  merely  tax-paying.  Still,  I  shall  not 
sell  it." 

Nobody,  in  fact,  would  have  been  inclined  to  buy  it  in 
those  days.  But  there  came  a  time  when  its  value  increased 
hour  by  hour  in  the  public  mind,  until  it  was  almost  beyond 
computation. 

A  chance  visitor  from  the  outside  world  made  an  inter- 
esting discovery.  On  this  wild  tract  of  hill  and  forest  was 
a  vein  of  coal  so  valuable  that,  to  the  practical  mind  of  the 
discoverer,  the  Judge's  unconsciousness  of  its  existence  was 
amazing.  He  himself  was  a  practical,  driving,  business 
schemer  from  New  York.  He  knew  the  value  of  what  he 
saw,  and  the  availability  of  the  material  in  consequence  of 
a  certain  position  in  which  the  mines  lay.  Before  he  left 
Delisleville  he  had  explained  this  with  such  a  presenting 
of  facts  that  the  Judge  had  awakened  to  an  enthusiasm 
as  Southern  as  his  previous  indifference  had  been.  He  had 
no  knowledge  of  business  methods;  he  had  practised  his 
profession  in  a  magnificent  dilettante  sort  of  way  which  had 
worn  an  imposing  air  and  impressed  his  clients,  and,  as  he 
was  by  inheritance  a  comparatively  rich  man,  he  had  not 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

been  driven  by  necessity  to  alter  his  methods.  The  sudden 
prospect  of  becoming  a  multimillionaire  excited  him.  He 
made  Napoleonic  plans,  and  was  dignified  and  eloquent. 

"  Why  should  I  form  a  company?  "  he  said.  "  If  I  am 
willing  to  make  the  first  ventures  myself,  the  inevitable  re- 
turns of  profit  will  do  the  rest,  and  there  will  be  no  com- 
plications. The  De  Willoughby  Mine  will  be  the  De  Wil- 
loughby Mine  alone.  I  prefer  that  it  should  be  so." 

The  idea  of  being  sole  ruler  in  the  scheme  made  him  feel 
rather  like  a  king,  and  he  privately  enjoyed  the  sensation. 
He  turned  into  money  all  the  property  he  could  avail  him- 
self of;  his  library  table  was  loaded  with  books  on  mining; 
he  invested  in  tons  of  machinery,  which  were  continually 
arriving  from  the  North,  or  stopping  on  the  way  when  it 
should  have  been  arriving.  He  sent  for  engineers  from 
various  parts  of  the  country  and  amazed  them  with  the  un- 
professional boldness  of  his  methods.  He  really  indulged 
in  a  few  months  of  dignified  riot,  of  what  he  imagined  to 
be  a  splendidly  executive  nature.  The  plans  were  com- 
pleted, the  machinery  placed,  the  engineers  and  cohorts 
of  workmen  engaged  in  tremendous  efforts,  the  Judge  was 
beginning  to  reflect  on  the  management  of  his  future  mill- 
ions, when — the  first  gun  was  fired  on  Fort  Sumter. 

That  was  the  beginning,  and  apparently  the  end.  Sud- 
denly the  storm  of  war  broke  forth,  and  its  tempest,  surging 
through  the  land,  swept  all  before  it.  The  country  was 
inundated  with  catastrophes,  capitalists  foundered,  schemes 
were  swamped,  the  armies  surged  to  and  fro.  The  De  Wil- 
loughby land  was  marched  and  fought  over;  scores  of  hasty, 
shallow  graves  were  dug  in  it  and  filled;  buildings  and  ma- 
chinery were  destroyed  as  if  a  tornado  had  passed  by.  The 
Judge  was  a  ruined  man;  his  realisable  property  he  had 

213 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

allowed  to  pass  from  his  hands,  his  coal  remained  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  the  Huge  income  he  was  to  have  drawn 
from  it  had  melted  into  nothingness. 

Nothing  could  have  altered  the  aspect  of  this  tragedy; 
but  there  was  a  singular  fact  which  added  to  its  intensity 
and  bitterness.  In  such  a  hot-bed  of  secession  as  was  De- 
lisleville,  the  fact  in  question  was  indeed  not  easily  explain- 
able, except  upon  the  grounds  either  of  a  Quixotic  patriot- 
ism or  upon  those  of  a  general  disposition  to  contradictori- 
ness.  A  Southern  man,  the  head  of  a  Southern  family,  the 
Judge  opposed  the  rebellion  and  openly  sided  with  the  Gov- 
ernment. That  he  had  been  a  man  given  to  argument  and 
contradiction,  and  always  priding  himself  upon  refusing  to- 
be  led  by  the  majority  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"  He  is  fancying  himself  a  Spartan  hero,  and  looking  for- 
ward to  laurels  and  history,"  one  of  his  neighbours  remarked. 
"  It  is  like  De  Willoughby  after  all.  He  would  have  been 
a  Secessionist  if  he  had  lived  in  Boston." 

"  The  Union  General  George  Washington  fought  for  and 
handed  down  to  us  /  will  protect,"  the  Judge  said  loftily 
himself. 

But  there  was  no  modifying  the  outburst  of  wonder  and 
condemnation  which  overwhelmed  him.  To  side  with  the 
Union — in  an  aristocratic  Southern  town — was  to  lose  social 
caste  and  friends,  to  be  held  a  renegade  and  an  open,  de- 
graded traitor  to  home  and  country.  At  that  period,  to  the 
Southerner  the  only  country  was  the  South— in  the  North 
reigned  outer  darkness.  Had  the  Judge  been  a  poor  white,, 
there  would  have  been  talk  of  tar  and  feathers.  As  a  man 
who  had  been  a  leader  among  the  aristocratic  classes,  he 
was  ostracized.  In  the  midst  of  his  financial  disasters  he 
was  treated  as  an  outlaw.  He  had  been  left  a  widower  a 

214 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

few  years  before,  during  the  war  his  son  De  Courcy  died 
of  fever,  Romaine  fell  in  battle,  and  his  sole  surviving  daugh- 
ter lost  her  life  through  diphtheria  contracted  in  a  soldiers' 
hospital.  The  family  had  sunk  into  actual  poverty;  the 
shock  of  sorrows  and  disappointment  broke  the  old  man's 
spirit.  On  the  day  that  peace  was  finally  declared  he  died 
in  his  room  in  the  old  house  which  had  once  been  so  full 
of  young  life  and  laughter  and  spirit. 

The  only  creature  with  him  at  the  time  was  his  grandson, 
young  Rupert  De  Willoughby,  who  was  De  Courcy's  son. 
The  sun  was  rising,  and  its  first  beams  shone  in  "at  the  open 
•window  rosily.  The  old  Judge  lay  rubbing  his  hands  slowly 
together,  perhaps  because  they  were  cold. 

"  Only  you  left,  Rupert,"  he  said,  "  and  there  were  so 
many  of  us.  If  Tom — if  Tom  had  not  been  such  a  failure — 
•don't  know  whether  he's  alive — or  dead.  If  Tom " 

His  hands  slowly  ceased  moving  and  his  voice  trailed  off 
into  silence.  Ten  minutes  later  all  was  over,  and  Rupert 
stood  in  the  world  entirely  alone. 


For  the  next  two  years  the  life  the  last  De  Willoughby 
lived  in  the  old  house,  though  distinctly  unique,  was  not 
favourable  to  the  development  of  youth.  Having  been  pre- 
pared for  the  practice  of  the  law,  after  the  time-honoured 
De  Willoughby  custom,  and  having  also  for  some  months 
occupied  a  corner  in  the  small,  unbusinesslike,  tree-shaded, 
brick  building  known  as  the  Judge's  "office,"  Rupert  sat 
now  at  his  grandfather's  desk  and  earned  a  scant  living  by 
endeavouring  to  hold  together  the  old  man's  long-dimin- 
ished practice.  The  profession  at  the  time  offered  nothing 
in  such  places  as  Delisleville,  even  to  older  and  more  ex- 

315 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

perienced  men.  No  one- .had  any  money  to  go  to  law  with, 
few  had  any  property  worth  going  to  law  about. 

Both  armies  having  swept  through  it,  Delisleville  wore 
in  those  days  an  aspect  differing  greatly  from  its  old  air  of 
hospitable  well-being  and  inconsequent  good  spirits  and 
good  cheer.  Its  broad  verandahed  houses  had  seen  hard 
usage,  its  pavements  were  worn  and  broken,  and  in  many 
streets  tufted  with  weeds;  its  fences  were  dilapidated,  its- 
rich  families  had  lost  their  possessions,  and  those  who  had  not 
been  driven  away  by  their  necessities  were  gazing  aghast  at 
a  future  to  which  it  seemed  impossible  to  adjust  their  ease- 
loving,  slave-attended,  luxurious  habits  of  the  past.  Houses- 
built  of  wood,  after  the  Southern  fashion,  do  not  well  with- 
stand neglect  and  ill-fortune.  Porticos  and  pillars  and  trell- 
is-work which  had  been  picturesque  and  imposing  when  they 
had  been  well  cared  for,  and  gleamed  white  among  creepers 
and  trees,  lost  their  charm  drearily  when  paint  peeled  off,, 
trees  were  cut  down,  and  vines  were  dragged  away  and  died. 
Over  the  whole  of  the  once  gay  little  place  there  had  fallen 
an  air  of  discouragement,  desolation,  and  decay.  Financial 
disaster  had  crippled  the  boldest  even  in  centres  much  more 
energetic  than  small,  unbusiness-like  Southern  towns;  the 
country  lay,  as  it  were,  prostrate  to  recover  strength,  and 
all  was  at  a  standstill. 

Finding  himself  penniless,  Rupert  De  Willoughby  lived 
in  a  corner  of  the  house  he  had  been  brought  up  in.  Such 
furniture  as  had  survived  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  entire 
dilapidation  of  old  age,  he  had  gathered  together  in  three 
or  four  rooms,  which  he  occupied  with  the  one  servant  good 
fortune  brought  to  his  door  at  a  time  when  the  forlornness 
of  his  changed  position  was  continually  accentuated  by  the 
untidy  irregularity  of  his  life  and  surroundings.  He  was 

216 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

only  able  to  afford  to  engage  the  shiftless  services  of  a  slat- 
ternly negro  girl,  rendered  insubordinate  by  her  newly  ac- 
quired freedom,  and  he  had  begun  to  feel  that  he  should 
never  again  find  himself  encompassed  by  the  decorous  sys- 
tem of  a  well-managed  household. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Uncle  Matthew  arrived  and 
presented  his  curious  petition,  which  was  that  he  should 
be  accepted  as  general  servant,  with  wages  or  without  them. 

He  had  not  belonged  to  Judge  De  Willoughby,  but  to 
a  distant  relative,  and,  as  he  was  an  obstinate  and  conserva- 
tive old  person,  he  actually  felt  that  to  be  "  a  free  nigger  " 
was  rather  to  drop  in  the  social  scale. 

"Whar's  a  man  stand,  sah,  if  he  ain't  got  no  fambly?" 
he  said  to  Rupert  when  he  came  to  offer  his  services  to  him. 
"  He  stan'  nowhar,  that's  war  he  stan';  I've  got  to  own  up 
to  it,  Marse  Rupert,  I'se  a  'ristycrat  bawn  an'  bred,  an'  I 
'low  to  stay  one,  long's  my  head's  hot.  Ef  my  old  mars's 
fambly  hadn't  er  gone  fo'th  en'  bin  scattered  to  de  fo'  win's 
of  de  university,  Fd  a  helt  on,  but  when  de  las'  of  'urn 
went  to  dat  Europe,  dey  couldn't  'ford  to  take  me,  an'  I 
had  ter  stay.  An'  when  I  heerd  as  all  yo'  kin  was  gone  an' 
you  was  gwine  to  live  erlone  like  dis  yere,  I  come  to  ax  yer 
to  take  me  to  wait  on  yer — as  a  favier,  Marse  Rupert — as 
a  favier.  'Tain't  pay  I  wants,  sah;  it's  a  fambly  name  an' 
a  fambly  circle." 

"  It's  not  much  of  a  circle,  Uncle  Matt,"  said  Rupert, 
looking  round  at  the  bareness  of  the  big  room  he  sat  in. 

"  'Tain't  much  fer  you,  suh,"  answered  Uncle  Matthew, 
"  but  it's  a  pow'fle  deal  fer  me  in  dese  yere  days.  Ef  yer 
don't  take  me,  fust  thing  I  knows  I'll  be  drivin'  or  waitin' 
on  some  Mr.  Nobody  from  New  York  or  Boston,  an'  seems 
like  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  stand  it.  'Scuse  me  a-recom- 

217 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

mendin'  myself,  sah — I  look  ole,  but  I  ain't  as  ole  as  I  look; 
I'se  Parnt  to  cook,  sah,«  'from  three  womens  what  I  was 
married  to,  an'  I  knows  my  place  an'  how  to  keep  house 
like  it  orter  be  kep'.  Will  you  try  me  a  mont',  Marse  De 
Willoughby — will  you  try  me  a  week?  " 

Rupert  tried  him  and  never  regretted  the  venture.  In 
fact,  Uncle  Matt's  accomplishments  were  varied  for  practical 
reasons.  He  had  been  in  his  time  first  house  servant,  then 
coachman;  he  had  married  at  twenty  a  woman  of  forty, 
who  had  been  a  sort  of  female  mulatto  Vatel.  When  she 
had  died,  having  overheated  herself  and  caught  cold  on  the 
occasion  of  a  series  of  great  dinners  given  at  a  triumphant 
political  crisis,  he  had  taken  for  his  second  wife  the  woman 
whose  ambition  it  had  been  to  rival  her  in  her  culinary  arts. 
His  third  marriage  had  been  even  more  distinguished.  His 
wife  had  been  owned  by  some  extravagantly  rich  Creoles  in 
New  Orleans,  and  had  even  lived  with  them  during  a  year 
spent  in  France,  thereby  gaining  unheard-of  culinary  accom- 
plishments. Matthew  had  always  declared  that  he  loved  her 
the  best  of  the  three.  Those  matrimonial  ventures  had  been 
a  liberal  education  to  him.  He  had  learned  to  cook  almost 
as  well  as  his  first,  and  from  his  second  and  third  he  had 
inherited  methods  and  recipes  which  were  invaluable.  He 
seemed  to  have  learned  to  do  everything.  He  dismissed  the 
slatternly  negro  girl  and  took  upon  himself  the  duties  of 
both  man  and  woman  servant.  The  house  gradually  wore 
a  new  aspect — dust  disappeared,  windows  were  bright,  the 
scant  furniture  was  arranged  to  the  best  possible  advantage, 
the  scant  meals  were  marvels  of  perfect  cookery  and  neat 
serving.  Having  prepared  a  repast,  Uncle  Matt  donned  an 
ancient  but  respectable  coat  and  stood  behind  his  young 
master's  chair  with  dignity.  The  dramatic  nature  of  his 

218 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

race  was  strongly  appealed  to  by  the  situation  in  which  he 
found  himself.  A  negro  of  his  kind  is  perfectly  capable  of 
building  a  romance  out  of  much  smaller  materials.  The 
amiable  vanity  which  gave  such  exalted  value  to  all  the  be- 
longings of  their  masters  in  their  days  of  slavery,  and  which 
so  delighted  in  all  picturesqueness  of  surrounding,  is  the 
best  of  foundations  for  romances.  From  generation  to  gen- 
eration certain  circumstances  and  qualities  had  conferred 
a  sort  of  distinction  upon  their  humbleness;  to  be  owned 
by  an  aristocrat,  to  live  in  a  great  house,  to  wait  upon  young 
masters  who  were  handsome  and  accomplished  and  young 
mistresses  who  were  beautiful  and  surrounded  by  worship- 
pers, to  be  indispensable  to  "  de  Jedge  "  or  "  de  Cun'l,"  or 
to  travel  as  attendant  because  some  brilliant  young  son  or 
lovely  young  daughter  could  find  no  one  who  would  wait 
on  them  as  "  Uncle  Matt "  or  "  Aunt  Prissy  "  could — these 
things  made  life  to  be  desired  and  filled  it  with  excitement 
and  importance. 

To  the  halcyon  days  in  which  such  delights  were  possible 
Uncle  Matt  belonged.  He  was  too  old  to  look  forward;  he 
wanted  his  past  again;  and  to  find  himself  the  sole  faithful 
retainer  in  a  once  brilliant  household,  with  the  chance  of 
making  himself  indispensable  to  the  one  remaining  scion  of 
an  old  name,  assisted  him  to  feel  that  he  was  a  relic  of  de- 
parted grandeur. 

His  contrivances  were  numberless.  In  a  corner  of  what 
he  called  the  "  back  gyarden  "  he  constructed  an  enclosure 
for  chickens.  He  bought  two  or  three  young  fowls,  and  by 
marvels  of  management  founded  a  family  with  them.  The 
family  once  founded,  he  made  exchanges  with  friendly  col- 
oured matrons  of  the  vicinity,  with  such  results  in  breeding 
that  "  Uncle  Matt's  "  chickens  became  celebrated  fowls.  He 

219 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

displayed  the  same  gifts  in  the  management  of  the  garden. 
In  a  few  months  after  his  arrival,  Rupert  began  to  find  him- 
self sitting  down  before  the  kind  of  meal  he  had  not  ex- 
pected to  contemplate  again. 

"  Uncle  Matt,"  he  said,  "  where  do  I  get  fried  chicken 
and  vegetables  like  these — and  honey  and  fresh  butter  and 
cream?  I  don't  pay  for  them." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  sah.  Yo'  property  pays  for  ?em.  Dat  7ar 
gyarden,  sah,  is  black  with  richness — jest  black.  It's  a 
f orchen  for  a  pusson  what  kin  contrive  an'  make  fren's,  an' 
trade,  an'  kin  nourish  a  spade.  Dar's  fruit-trees  an'  grape- 
vines dar — an'  room  enuf  to  plant  anything — an'  richness 
enuf  to  make  peas  an'  taters  an'  beets  an'  cabbages  jest  jump 
out  o'  de  yarth.  I've  took  de  liberty  of  makin'  a  truck 
patch,  an'  I've  got  me  a  chicken  coop,  an'  I've  had  mighty 
good  luck  with  my  aigs  an'  my  truck — an'  I've  got  things 
to  trade  with  the  women  folks  for  what  I  ain't  got.  De 
ladies  likes  tradin',  an'  dey's  mighty  neighbourly  about 
yeah,  'memberin'  yo'  fambly,  sah." 

Rupert  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  broke  into  a  hearty, 
boyish  laugh,  which  it  was  very  good  both  to  see  and  hear. 
He  very  seldom  laughed. 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  genius  like  you,  Matt,"  he  said.  "  What 
luck  I'm  in  to  have  you.  Raising  chickens  and  vegetables, 
and  negotiating  with  your  lady  friends  for  me!  I  feel  like 
a  caliph  with  a  grand  vizier.  I  never  tasted  such  chicken 
or  such  waffles  in  my  life!  " 

"I'm  settin'  some  tukkey-eggs  now — under  de  yaller 
hen,"  said  Matt,  with  a  slyly  exultant  grin.  "  She's  a  good 
mother,  the  yaller  hen;  an'  de  way  dem  fruit-trees  is  gwine 
ter  be  loaded  is  a  sight.  Aunt  Mary  Field,  she's  tradin'  with 
me  a'ready  agin  fruit  puttin'-up  time," 

220 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Kupert  got  up  from  his  chair.  He  caught  old  Matt's 
dusky,  yellow-palmed  paw  in  his  hand  and  shook  it  hard. 
His  gloomy  young  face  had  changed  its  aspect,  his  eyes  sud- 
denly looked  like  his  mother's — and  Delia  Vanuxem  had 
been  said  to  have  the  loveliest  soft  eyes  in  all  the  South. 

"  Matt,"  he  said,  "  I  couldn't  do  without  you.  It  isn't 
only  that"  with  a  gesture  towards  the  table,  "you — it's 
almost  as  if  you  had  come  to  save  me." 

"  Cle  nigger  man  like  me,  Marse  Rupert,"  said  Uncle 
Matt,  "  savin'  of  a  fine  young  gentleman  like  what  you  isf 
How's  I  gwine  ter  do  it  ?  "  But  his  wrinkled  face  looked 
tremulous  with  emotion.  "  Times  is  gwine  ter  change  for 
you,  they  is,  an'  Matt's  gwine  ter  stay  by  yer  till  dat  come 
to  pass.  Marse  Eupert,"  looking  at  him  curiously,  "  I  'clar 
to  Gawd  you  look  like  yo'  young  mammy  did.  Yo'  ain't  al- 
ways, but  jes'  dish  yer  minnit  yo'  does — an'  yer  did  jes'' 
now  when  yer  laf." 

"Do  I  look  like  her?"  said  Rupert.  "I'm  glad  of  it. 
I  want  to  be  like  her.  Say,  Uncle  Matt,  whenever  I  look 
or  speak  or  act  like  her,  you  tell  me." 

When  in  the  course  of  neighbourly  conversation  Matt 
mentioned  this  to  his  friend  Aunt  Mary  Fields,  she  put  a 
new  colour  upon  it. 

"He  worshipped  his  maw,  an'  she  jest  'dored  down  on 
him,"  she  said;  "but  'tain't  only  he  want  look  like  her, 
he  doan'  want  look  like  his  paw.  Ev'one  know  what  Cun'l 
de  Courcy  was — an'  dat  chile  jest  'spise  him.  He  was  allus 
a  mons'ous  proud  chile,  and  when  de  Cun'l  broke  loose  an* 
went  on  one  o'  his  t'ars,  it  mos'  'stroyed  dat  boy  wid  de 
disgracefulness.  Dar's  chil'en  as  doan'  keer  or  notice — 
but  dat  boy,  it  'most  'stroyed  him." 

The  big,  empty-sounding  house  was  kept  orderly  and 

221 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

spotless,  the  back  garden  exhibited  such  vegetables  as  no 
one  else  owned,  the  fruit-trees  and  grape-vines  throve,  in 
time  the  flower-beds  began  to  bloom  brilliantly,  the  rose- 
bushes and  shrubs  were  trimmed,  the  paths  swept,  and  peo- 
ple began  to  apply  to  Uncle  Matt  for  slips  and  seeds.  He 
himself  became  quite  young  again,  so  inspired  was  he  by 
his  importance  and  popularity.  When  he  went  into  the 
town  upon  errands,  people  stopped  to  talk  to  him;  the  young 
business  or  professional  men  called  him  into  their  offices 
to  have  a  chat  with  him.  He  was  such  a  respectable  relic 
of  the  times  which  had  been  "  better  days  "  to  all  of  them, 
that  there  were  those  who  were  almost  confidential  with 
him.  Uncle  Matt  would  always  understand  their  sentiments 
and  doctrines,  and  he  was  always  to  be  relied  on  for  any 
small  service.  Such  a  cocktail  or  julep  no  one  else  could 
prepare,  and  there  were  numerous  subtle  accomplishments 
in  the  matter  of  mixing  liquid  refreshments  which  would 
have  earned  a  reputation  for  any  man. 

There  was  no  more  familiar  figure  than  his  in  the  market 
or  business  streets  of  the  hot,  sunshine-flooded  little  town, 
which  the  passing  armies  had  left  so  battered  and  deserted. 

Uncle  Matt  knew  all  the  stories  in  Delisleville.  He  knew 
how  one  house  was  falling  to  pieces  for  lack  of  repairs;  he 
heard  of  the  horses  that  had  been  sold  or  had  died  of  old 
age  and  left  their  owners  without  a  beast  to  draw  their  rick- 
ety buggies  or  carriages;  he  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
failing  fortunes  of  what  had  once  been  the  most  important 
"  store  "  in  the  town,  and  whose  owner  had  been  an  aristo- 
cratic magnate,  having  no  more  undignified  connection  with 
the  place  than  that  of  provider  of  capital. 

As  he  walked  up  Main  Street  on  his  way  to  market,  with 
his  basket  on  his  arm,  he  saw  who  had  been  able  to  "  lay 

222 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

in  new  stock"  and  who  had  not.  He  saw  the  new  sign- 
boards hung  outside  small  houses  which  had  been  turned 
into  offices.  He  knew  what  young  scion  of  a  respectable 
family  had  begun  "  doctoring  "  or  "  set  up  as  a  lawyer." 
Sometimes  he  even  dropped  in  and  made  brief  visits  of 
respectful  congratulation. 

"  But,"  he  said  privately  to  his  young  master,  "  de  air 
ob  de  atmosphere,  it's  jest  full  of  dem  young  lawyers  an' 
doctors.  Dar  don't  seem  to  be  nothin'  else  for  a  gen'leman's 
sons  to  do  but  to  kyore  people  or  go  to  law  for  'em.  Of  cose 
dey  oughtn't  ter  hab  ter  work,  gen'lemen  oughtn'ter.  Dey 
didn't  usen  to  heb  ter,  but  now  dey  is  gotter.  Lawdy, 
Marse  Rupert,  you'll  hatter  'scuse  me,  but  de  young  law- 
yers, an'  de  young  doctors,  dey  is  scattered  about  dish  yer 
D'lisleville! " 

There  were  certain  new  sign-boards  which  excited  him 
to  great  interest.  There  was  one  he  never  passed  without 
pausing  to  examine  and  reflect  upon  it. 

When  he  came  within  range  of  it  on  his  way  up  the  street, 
his  pace  would  slacken,  and  when  he  reached  it  he  would 
stop  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement  and  stand  with  his  basket 
on  his  arm,  gazing  at  the  lettering  with  an  absorbed  air  of 
interest  and  curiosity.  It  read,  "  Milton  January,  Claim 
Agent."  He  could  not  read,  but  he  had  heard  comments 
made  upon  the  profession  of  the  owner  of  this  sign-board 
which  had  filled  him  with  speculative  thought.  He  shared 
the  jealousy  of  strangers  who  came  from  "  the  North  "  to 
Delisleville  and  set  up  offices,  which  much  more  intelligent 
persons  than  himself  burned  with.  He  resented  them  as 
intruders,  and  felt  that  their  well-dressed  air  and  alert,  busi- 
ness-like manner  was  an  insult  to  departed  fortunes. 

"  What  they  come  fer?  "  he  used  to  grumble.    "  Takin' 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

away  trade  an'  business  when  they  ain't  none  left  for  de 
proper  people  nohow.  '  How's  we  gwine  ter  live  if  all  New 
York  City  an'  Bos'n  an'  Philadelphy  pours  in  ?  " 

"  They  are  not  pouring  in  very  fast,  Uncle  Matt,"  Rupert 
answered  him  once.  "  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  us  if 
they  did.  They  bring  some  money,  at  any  rate.  There  are 
only  one  or  two  of  them,  and  one  is  a  claim  agent." 

"  Dat's  jest  what  I  wants  ter  know,"  said  Matt.  "  What's 
dey  layin'  claim  to?  What  right  dey  got  ter  claim  any- 
thin'?  Gawd  knows  dar  ain't  much  ter  claim." 

Rupert  laughed  and  gave  him  a  friendly,  boyish  slap  on 
the  back. 

"  They  are  not  claiming  things  from  people,  but  for  them. 
They  look  up  claims  against  the  Government  and  try  to  get 
indemnity  for  them.  They  prove  claims  to  back  pay,  and 
for  damages  and  losses,  and  try  to  make  the  Government 
refund." 

Uncle  Matt  rubbed  his  head  a  minute,  then  he  looked  up 
eagerly. 

"  Cun'l  De  Willoughby,  now,"  he  said;  "  doan'  you  s'pose 
dar's  some  back  pay  owin'  to  him  for  de  damage  dat  yaller 
fever  done  him  wot  he  done  cotch  from  de  army?  " 

Rupert  laughed  a  little  bitterly. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I'm  afraid  not." 

"What  dey  gwine  to  refun',  den?"  said  Matt.    "  Dat's ' 
what  I'd  like  ter  fin'  out.    Dis  hyer  idee  of  refun'in'  please 
me  mightily.     I'd  be  pow'fle  glad  to  come  bang  up  agin' 
some  refun'in'  myself."  - 

From  that  time  his  interest  in  Milton  January,  Claim 
Agent,  increased  week  by  week.  He  used  to  loiter  about 
talking  groups  if  he  caught  the  sound  of  his  name,  in  the 
hope  of  gathering  inforrcrtio^.  lie  was  quite  shrewd  enough 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

to  realise  his  own  entire  ignorance  of  many  subjects,  and 
he  had  the  pride  which  prevented  his  being  willing  to  com- 
mit himself. 

"  I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  ole  nigger/'  he  used  to  say.  "  I 
ain't  had  no  eddication  like  some  er  dese  yere  smarties  what 
kin  read  an'  cipher  an'  do  de  double  shuffle  in  de  copy-book. 
Matt  ain't  never  rub  his  back  'gin  no  college  wall.  Bes* 
thing  he  knows  is  dat  he  doan'  know  nothin'.  Dat's  a 
pow'fle  useful  piece  o'  1'arnin'  to  help  a  man,,  black  or  white, 
from  makin'  a  fool  er  hesself  bigger  dan  what  de  good  Lawd 
'tended  him  fer  ter  be.  Matt  he  gradyuated  in  dat  'ar  knowl- 
edge an'  got  he  stiffikit.  When  de  good  Lawd  turn  a  man 
out  a  fool,  he  got  ter  ~be  a  fool,  but  he  needn'  ter  be  a  bigger 
fool  den  what  he  goiter" 

So  he  listened  in  the  market,  where  he  went  every  morn- 
ing to  bargain  for  his  bit  of  beefsteak,  or  fish,  or  butter,  and 
where  the  men  and  women  who  kept  the  stalls  knew  him 
as  well  as  they  knew  each  other.  They  all  liked  him  and 
welcomed  him  as  he  approached  in  his  clean  old  clothes,  his 
market  basket  on  his  arm,  his  hat  set  rather  knowingly  upon 
his  grizzled  wool.  He  was,  in  fact,  rather  a  flirtatious  old 
party,  and  was  counted  a  great  wit,  and  was  full  of  a  shrewd 
humour  as  well  as  of  grandiloquent  compliment. 

"  I  has  a  jocalder  way  er  talking  I  ain't  gwine  ter  deny," 
he  would  say  when  complimented  upon  his  popularity  with 
the  fair  sex,  "  an'  dey  ain't  nothin'  de  ladies  likes  mo'  dan 
a  man  what's  jocalder.  Dey  loves  jokin'  an'  dey  loves  to 
laff.  It's  de  way  er  de  sect.  A  man  what  cayn't  be  jocalder 
with  'em,  he  hain't  no  show." 

"  What  dis  hyer  claim  agentin'  I's  hearin'  so  much  talk 
about  ?  "  he  enquired  of  a  group  one  morning.  "  What  / 
wants  is  ter  get  inter  de  innards  of  de  t'ing,  an'  den  I'se 

225 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

gwine  to  claim  sump'n  fer  myse'f.  If  dar's  claimin'  gwine 
on,  I'se  a  gen'leman  what's  gwine  to  be  on  de  camp-meetin> 
groun',  an'  fo'most  'mong  de  shouters." 

"What  did  ye  lose  by  the  war,  Uncle  Matt?"  said  a 
countryman,  who  was  leaning  against  his  market  waggon 
of  "  produce  "  and  chewing  tobacco.  "  If  ye  kin  hunt 
up  suthin'  ye  lost,  ye  kin  put  in  a  claim  fer  the  vally  of 
it,  an'  mebbe  get  Government  to  give  ye  indemnity.  Mebbe 
ye  kin  an'  mebbe  ye  cayn't.  They  ain't  keen  to  do  it,  but 
mebbe  ye  could  work  it  through  a  smart  agent  like  Janu- 
ary. They  say  he's  as  smart  as  they  make  'em." 

It  was  a  broiling  July  morning;  only  the  people  who  were 
obliged  to  leave  their  houses  for  some  special  reason  were 
to  be  seen  in  the  streets;  the  market  waggons  which  had 
come  in  from  the  country  laden  with  vegetables  and  chick- 
ens and  butter  were  drawn  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  mar- 
ket house,  that  their  forlorn  horses  or  mules  might  escape 
the  glaring  hot  sun.  The  liveliest  business  hour  had  passed, 
and  about  the  waggons  a  group  of  market  men  and  women 
and  two  or  three  loiterers  were  idling  in  the  shade,  waiting 
for  chance-belated  customers.  There  was  a  general  drawing 
Bear  when  Uncle  Matt  began  his  conversation.  They  always 
wanted  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say,  and  always  responded 
with  loud,  sympathetic  guffaws  to  his  "  jocalder  "  remarks. 

"  He's  sech  a  case,  Uncle  Matt  is,"  the  women  would  say, 
"I  never  seen  sich  a  case." 

When  the  countryman  spoke,  Uncle  Matt  put  on  an  ex- 
pression of  dignified  thoughtfulness.  It  was  an  expression 
his  audience  were  entirely  familiar  with  and  invariably 
greeted  with  delight. 

"  Endurin'  of  de  war,"  he  said,  "  I  los'  severial  things. 
Fust  thing  I  memberize  of  losin'  was  a  pa'r  of  boots.  Dar 

226 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

was  a  riggiment  passin'  at  de  time,  an'  de  membiers  of  dat 
riggiment  had  been  footin'  it  long  enough  to  have  wo'  out 
a  good  deal  er  shoe-leather.  They  was  thusty  an'  hungry,, 
an'  come  to  de  halt  near  my  cabin  to  require  if  dar  warn't 
no  vittles  lyin'  roun'  loose  for  de  good  er  de  country.  When 
dey  was  gone,  my  new  boots  was  gone,  what  I'd  jest  brung 
home  from  de  cobbler." 

His  audience  broke  into  a  shout  of  enjoyment. 

"  Dat  'ar  incerdent  stirred  up  my  paketriotit  f  eelin's  con- 
sider'ble  at  de  moment.  I  couldn't  seem  to  see  it  in  de  light 
what  p'raps  I  oughter  seen  it  in.  I  rared  roun'  a  good  deal, 
an'  fer  a  moment  er  two,  I  didn't  seem  tar  mind  which  side 
beat  de  oder.  Jest  dat  'casion.  I  doan'  say  de  sentiment 
continnered  on,  but  jest  dat  'casion  seemed  ter  me  like  dar 
was  a  Yank  somewhars  es  I  wouldn't  hev  ben  agin  seem* 
takin'  a  whuppin'  from  some'un,  Secesh  or  no  Secesh." 

"  What  else  did  ye  lose,  Unc'  Matt?  "  someone  said  when 
the  laugh  died  down. 

"  Well,  I  lose  a  wife — kinder  cook  dat  dar  ain't  no  'dem- 
nity  kin  make  up  fer  when  de  Lawd's  removed  'em.  An* 
'pears  to  me  right  dar,  dat  if  I  wusn't  a  chu'ch  member,  I 
shed  be  led  on  ter  say  dat,  considerin'  what  a  skaseness  er 
good  cooks  dar  is,  seems  like  de  good  Lawd's  almost  wasteful 
an'  stravagant,  de  way  he  lets  'em  die  off.  Three  uv  'em  he 
'moved  from  me  to  a  better  worl'.  Not  as  I'm  a  man  what'd  j 
wanter  be  sackerligious;  but  'pears  to  me  dar  was  mo'  wuk 
fur  'em  to  do  in  dis  hyer  dark  worl'  er  sin  dan  in  de  realms 
er  glory.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  dat's  how  it  seem  to  a  pore 
nigger  like  me." 

"  The  Government  won't  pay  for  yer  wife,  Matt,"  said  the 
owner  of  the  market  waggon. 

"  Dat  dey  won't,  en  dat  dey  cayn't,"  said  Matt.     "  Dat 

227 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

las'  woman's  gumbo  soup  warn't  a  thing  to  be  'damnified 
f er,  dat  it  warn't.  But  what  I'm  a  aimin'  at  is  to  fin'  out 
what  dey  will  pay  f er,  en  how  much.  Dar  was  one  mawnin' 
I  sot  at  my  do'  reflectin'  on  de  Gawsp'l,  an'  de  Yanks  come 
jest  a  tarin'  down  de  road,  licketty  switch,  licketty  switch, 
yellin'  like  de  debil  let  loose,  en  firin'  of  dere  pistols,  an'  I 
.gotter  'fess  I  los'  a  heap  a  courage  dat  time — an'  I  los'  a 
heap  o'  breath  runnin'  'way  from  'em  en  outer  sight.  Now 
I  know  de  Gov'ment  not  gwine  ter  pay  me  fer  losin'  dem 
ihings,  but  what  is  dey  gwine  pay  for  losin'  ?  " 

"  Property,  they  say — crops  V  houses,  'n'  barns,  'n'  truck 
mith  money." 

Uncle  Matt  removed  his  hat,  and  looked  into  the  crown 
of  it  as  if  for  instruction  before  he  wiped  his  forehead  and 
put  it  on  again. 

"Aye-yi!  Dey  is,  is  dey?"  he  said.  "Property — en 
houses,  en  barns,  en  truck  wuth  money?  Dey'll  hev  a  plenty 
to  pay,  ef  dey  begins  dat  game,  won't  dey?  Dey'll  hev  ter 
dig  down  inter  de  Gov'ment  breeches  pocket  pretty  deep, 
dat  dey  will.  Doan'  see  how  de  Pres'dent  gwine  ter  do  it 
out'n  what  dey  'lows  him,  less'n  dey  'lows  him  mighty  big 
pocket  money." 

"'Tain't  the  President,  Matt,"  said  one  of  the  crowd. 
« It's  the  Nation." 

"  Oh,  it's  de  Nation!  "  said  Matt.  "  De  Nation.  Well> 
Hr.  Nation  gwine  fin'  he  got  plenty  ter  do — early  en  late." 

This  was  not  the  last  time  he  led  the  talk  in  the  direction 
of  Government  claims,  and  in  the  course  of  his  marketings 
and  droppings  into  various  stores  and  young  lawyers'  offices, 
he  gathered  a  good  deal  of  information.  Claims  upon  the 
Government  had  not  been  so  far  exploited  in  those  days  as 
they  were  a  little  later,  and  knowledge  of  such  business  and 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

its  processes  was  not  as  easily  obtainable  by  unbusinesslike 
persons. 

One  morning,  as  he  stood  at  the  street  corner  nearest  the 
Claim  Agent's  office,  a  little  man  came  out  of  the  place,  and 
by  chance  stopped  to  cool  himself  for  a  few  moments  under 
the  shade  of  the  very  maple  tree  Uncle  Matt  had  chosen. 

He  was  a  very  small  man,  wearing  very  large  panta- 
loons, and  he  had  a  little  countenance  whose  expression 
was  a  curious  combination  of  rustic  vacancy  and  incon- 
gruous slyness.  He  was  evidently  from  the  country,  and 
Uncle  Matt's  respectable,  in  fact,  rather  aristocratic  air,  ap- 
parently attracted  his  attention. 

"  'Scuse  me,  sah,"  said  Matt,  "  'scuse  me  addressin'  of  you, 
but  dem  ar  Claim  Agents ?  " 

"  Hev  ye  got  a  claim  ?  "  said  the  little  man  in  words  that 
were  slow,  but  with  an  air  that  was  sharp.  "  I  mean,  has 
anyone  ye  work  fur  got  one?  " 

"  Well,  sah/'  answered  Matt,  "  I  ain't  sartain,  but— 

"  Ye'd  better  make  sartain,"  said  the  little  man.  "  Bern* 
es  the  thing's  started  the  way  it  hes,  anyone  es  might  hev  a 
claim  an'  lets  it  lie,  is  a  derned  fool.  I  come  from  over  the 
mountain.  My  name's  Stamps,  and  I've  got  one." 

Uncle  Matt  regarded  him  with  interest — not  exactly  with 
respect,  but  with  interest. 

Stamps  took  off  his  battered  broad-brimmed  hat,  wiped 
his  moist  forehead  and  expectorated,  leaning  against  the 
tree. 

"  Thar's  people  in  this  town  as  is  derned  fools,"  he  re- 
marked, sententiously.  "  Thar's  people  in  most  every  town 
in  the  Union  as  is  derned  fools.  Most  everybody's  got  a 
claim  to  suthin',  if  they'd  only  got  the  common  horse  sense 
ter  look  it  up.  Why,  look  at  that  yoke  o'  oxen  o'  mine — the 

229 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

finest  yoke  o'  steers  in  Hamlin  County.  Would  hev  took 
fust  ticket  at  any  Agricultural  Fair  in  the  United  States.  I 
ain't  goin'  to  sacceryfist  them  steers  to  no  Stars  an'  Stripes 
as  ever  floated.  The  Guv'ment's  got  to  pay  me  the  wuth  of 
'em  down  to  the  last  cent." 

He  gave  Matt  a  sharp  look  with  a  hint  of  inquiry  in  it,  as 
if  he  was  asking  either  his  hearer  or  himself  a  question,  and 
was  not  entirely  certain  of  the  answer. 

"  Now  thar's  D'Willerby,"  he  went  on.  "  Big  Tom- 
Tom  D'Willerby  lost  enough,  the  Lord  knows.  Fust  one 
army,  ?n'  then  another  layin'  holt  on  his  stock  as  it  come 
over  the  road  from  one  place  an'  another,  a-eatin'  of  it  up 
'n'  a-wearin'  his  goods  made  up  into  shirts  'n'  the  like — 
'n'  him  left  a'most  cleaned  out  o'  everythin'.  Why,  Tom 
D'Willerby- 

"  'Scuse  me,  sah,"  interrupted  Matt,  "  but  did  you  say 
De  Willoughby?" 

"  I  said  D'Willerby,"  answered  Mr.  Stamps.  "  That's 
what  he's  called  at  the  Cross-roads." 

There  he  stopped  and  stared  at  Matt  a  moment. 

"  My  young  master's  name's  De  Willoughby,  sah,"  Matt 
said;  "  'n'  de  names  soun's  mighty  simulious  when  dey's 
spoke  quick.  My  young  Marse,  Rupert  De  Willoughby,  he 
de  gran'son  er  Jedge  De  Willoughby,  an'  de  son  an'  heir  er 
<Cun'l  De  Courcy  De  Willoughby  what  died  er  yaller  fever 
at  Nashville." 

"  Well,  I'm  doggoned,"  the  little  man  remarked,  "  I'd 
orter  thought  er  thet.  This  yere's  Delisleville,  'n'  I  recker- 
lect  hearin'  when  fust  he  come  to  Hamlin  thet  he  was  some 
kin  to  some  big  bugs  down  ter  D'lisleville,  'n'  his  father  was 
a  Jedge — doggoned  ef  I  didn't! " 


230 


CHAPTER  XIX 

s 

RUPEET  DE  WILLOUGHBY  was  lying  upon  the  grass  in  the 
garden  under  the  shade  of  a  tree.  The  "  office  "  had  been 
stifling  hot,  and  there  had  been  even  less  to  suggest  any  hope 
of  possible  professional  business  than  the  blankness  of  most 
days  held.  There  never  was  any  business,  but  at  rare  in- 
tervals someone  dropped  in  and  asked  him  a  question  or  so, 
his  answers  to  which,  by  the  exercise  of  imagination,  might 
be  regarded  as  coming  under  the  head  of  "  advice."  Hi& 
clients  had  no  money,  however — nobody  had  any  money;  and 
his  affairs  were  assuming  a  rather  desperate  aspect. 

He  had  come  home  through  the  hot  streets  with  his  straw 
hat  pushed  back,  the  moist  rings  of  his  black  hair  lying 
on  a  forehead  lined  with  a  rather  dark  frown.  He  went  into 
the  garden  and  threw  himself  on  the  grass  in  the  shade. 
He  could  be  physically  at  ease  there,  at  least.  The  old  gar- 
den had  always  been  a  pleasure  to  him,  and  on  a  hot  summer 
day  it  was  full  of  sweet  scents  and  sounds  he  was  fond  of. 
At  this  time  there  were  tangles  of  honeysuckle  and  bushes 
heavy  with  mock-orange;  an  arbour  near  him  was  covered 
by  a  multiflora  rose,  weighted  with  masses  of  its  small,  deli- 
cate blossoms;  within  a  few  feet  of  it  a  bed  of  mignonette 
grew,  and  the  sun-warmed  breathing  of  all  these  fragrant 
things  was  a  luxurious  accompaniment  to  the  booming  of 
the  bees,  blundering  and  buzzing  in  and  out  of  their  flowers, 
and  the  summer  languid  notes  of  the  stray  birds  which  lit 
on  the  branches  and  called  to  each  other  among  the  thick 
leaves. 

231 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

»At  twenty-three  a  man  may  be  very  young.  Rupert  was 
both  young  and  old.  His  silent  resentment  of  the  shadow 
which  he  felt  had  always  rested  upon  him,  had  become  a 
morbid  thing.  It  had  led  him  to  seclude  himself  from  the 
gay  little  Delisleville  world  and  cut  himself  off  from  young 
friendships.  After  his  mother — who  had  understood  his 
temperament  and  his  resentment — had  died,  nobody  cared 
very  much  for  him.  The  youth  of  Delisleville  was  pictu- 
resque, pleasure-loving,  and  inconsequent.  It  had  little  par- 
ties at  which  it  danced;  it  had  little  clubs  which  were  vaguely 
musical  or  literary;  and  it  had  an  ingenuous  belief  in  the 
talents  and  graces  displayed  at  these  gatherings.  The  femi- 
nine members  of  these  societies  were  sometimes  wonderfully 
lovely.  They  were  very  young,  and  had  soft  eyes  and  soft 
Southern  voices,  and  were  the  owners  of  the  tiniest  arched 
feet  and  the  slenderest  little,  supple  waists  in  the  world. 
Until  they  were  married — which  usually  happened  very 
early — they  were  always  being  made  love  to  and  knew  that 
this  was  what  God  had  made  them  for — that  they  should 
dance  a  great  deal,  that  they  should  have  many  flowers  and 
bonbons  laid  at  their  small  feet,  that  beautiful  youths  with 
sentimental  tenor  voices  should  serenade  them  with  guitars 
on  moonlight  nights,  which  last  charming  thing  led  them 
to  congratulate  themselves  on  having  been  born  in  the  South, 
as  such  romantic  incidents  were  not  a  feature  of  life  in  New 
York  and  Boston.  The  masculine  members  were  usually 
lithe  and  slim,  and  often  of  graceful  height;  they  frequently 
possessed  their  share  of  good  looks,  danced  and  rode  well, 
and  could  sing  love  songs.  As  it  was  the  portion  of  their 
fair  companions  to  be  made  love  to,  it  was  theirs  to  make 
love.  They  often  wrote  verses,  and  they  also  were  given 
to  arched  insteps  and  eyes  with  very  perceptible  fringes. 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

For  some  singular  reason,  it  seems  that  Southern  blood  tends 
to  express  itself  in  fine  eyes  and  lashes. 

But  with  this  simply  emotional  and  happy  youth  young- 
De  Willoughby  had  not  amalgamated.  Once  he  had  gone 
to  a  dance,  and  his  father  the  Colonel  had  appeared  upon 
the  scene  as  a  spectator  in  a  state  of  exaggeratedly  graceful 
intoxication.  He  was  in  the  condition  when  he  was  ex- 
tremely gallant  and  paid  flowery  compliments  to  each  pair 
of  bright  eyes  he  chanced  to  find  himself  near. 

When  he  first  caught  sight  of  him,  Rupert  was  waltzing* 
with  a  lovely  little  creature  who  was  a  Vanuxem  and  was- 
not  unlike  the*  Delia  Tom  De  Willoughby  had  fallen  hope- 
lessly in  love  with.  When  he  saw  his  father  a  flash  of  scarlet 
shot  over  the  boy's  face,  and,  passing,  left  him  looking  very 
black  and  white.  His  brow  drew  down  into  its  frown,  and 
lie  began  to  dance  with  less  spirit.  When  the  waltz  was  at 
an  end,  he  led  his  partner  to  her  seat  and  stood  a  moment 
silently  before  her,  glancing  under  his  black  lashes  at  the 
Colonel,  who  had  begun  to  quote  Thomas  Moore  and  was 
declaiming  "  The  Young  May  Moon  "  to  a  pretty  creature 
with  a  rather  alarmed  look  in  her  uplifted  eyes.  It  was  the 
first  dance  at  which  she  had  appeared  since  she  had  left 
echool. 

Suddenly  Rupert  turned  to  his  partner.  He  made  her 
a  bow;  he  was  a  graceful  young  fellow. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Vanuxem.  Thank  you  for  the  dance. 
Good-night.  I  am  going  home." 

"Are  you?"  exclaimed  little  Miss  Vanuxem.  "But  it 
is  so  early,  Mr.  De  Willoughby." 

"  I  have  stayed  just  ten  minutes  too  long  now,"  said 
Rupert.  "  Thank  you  again,  Miss  Vanuxem.  Good-night." 

He  walked  across  the  room  to  Colonel  De  Willoughby* 

233 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  am  going  home,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  fierce  voice;  "  you 
liad  better  come  with  me." 

"  No  sush  thing,"  answered  the  Colonel,  gaily.  "  On'y 
just  come.  Don't  go  to  roosh  with  shickens.  Just  quoting 
Tom  Moore  to  Miss  Baxter. 

"  Bes'  of  all  ways  to  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear." 

The  little  beauty,  who  had  turned  with  relieved  delight 
to  take  the  arm  of  a  new  partner,  looked  at  her  poetic  ad- 
mirer apologetically. 

"  Mr.  Gaines  has  come  for  me,  Colonel  De  Willoughby," 
ghe  said;  "  I  am  engaged  to  him  for  this  dance."  And 
she  slipped  away  clinging  almost  tenderly  to  the  arm  of  her 
enraptured  escort,  who  felt  himself  suddenly  transformed 
into  something  like  a  hero. 

"  Colonel  De  Willoughby  is  so  nattering,"  she  said;  "  and 
lie  has  such  a  queer  way  of  paying  compliments.  I'm 
almost  frightened  of  him." 

"  I  will  see  that  he  does  not  speak  to  you  again,"  said  her 
partner,  with  an  air  of  magnificent  courage.  "  He  should 
not  have  been  allowed  to  come  in.  You,  of  course,  could 
not  understand,  but — the  men  who  are  here  will  protect 
the  ladies  who  are  their  guests." 

Rupert  gave  his  father  a  long  look  and  turned  on  his  heel. 
He  went  home,  and  the  next  time  the  Terpsichorean  Society 
invited  him  to  a  dance  he  declined  to  go. 

"  Nice  fellow  I  am  to  go  to  such  places,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  Liable  to  bring  a  drunken  lunatic  down  upon  them 
at  any  minute.  No,  the  devil  take  it  all,  I'm  going  to  stay 
at  home! " 

234 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

He  stayed  at  home,  and  gradually  dropped  out  of  the 
young,  glowing,  innocently  frivolous  and  happy  world  alto- 
gether, and  it  carried  on  its  festivities  perfectly  well  without 
him.  The  selfishness  of  lovely  youth  is  a  guileless,  joyous 
thing,  and  pathetic  inasmuch  as  maturity  realises  the  undue 
retribution  which  befalls  it  as  it  learns  of  life. 

When  poverty  and  loneliness  fell  upon  him,  the  boy  had 
no  youthful  ameliorations,  even  though  he  was  so  touch- 
ingly  young.  Occasionally  some  old  friend  of  his  grand- 
father's encountered  him  somewhere  and  gave  him  rather 
florid  good  advice;  some  kindly  matron,  perhaps,  asked  him 
to  come  and  see  her;  but  there  was  no  one  in  the  place  who 
could  do  anything  practical.  Delisleville  had  never  been 
a  practical  place,  and  now  its  day  seemed  utterly  over.  Its 
gentlemanly  pretence  at  business  had  received  blows  too 
heavy  to  recover  from  until  times  had  lapsed;  in  some  of 
the  streets  tiny  tufts  of  grass  began  to  show  themselves  be- 
tween the  stones. 

As  he  had  walked  back  in  the  heat,  Rupert  had  observed 
these  tiny  tufts  of  green  with  a  new  sense  of  their  meaning. 
He  was  thinking  of  them  as  he  lay  upon  the  grass,  the  warm 
scent  of  the  mock-orange  blossoms  and  roses,  mingled  with 
honeysuckle  in  the  air,  the  booming  of  the  bees  among  the 
multiflora  blooms  was  in  his  ears. 

"  What  can  I  do?  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  There  is  noth- 
ing to  be  done  here.  There  never  was  much,  and  now  there 
is  nothing.  I  can't  loaf  about  and  starve.  I  won't  beg  from 
people,  and  if  I  would,  I  haven't  a  relation  left  who  isn't 
a  beggar  himself — and  there  are  few  enough  of  them  left." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled  out  a  well-worn 
greenback.  He.  straightened  out  its  creases  cautiously  and 
looked  at  it. 

235 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I've  got  two  dollars,"  he  said,  "  and  no  prospect  of  get- 
ting any  more.  Even  Matt  can't  make  two  dollars  last  long." 
The  latch  of  the  side  gate  clicked  and  the  gate  opened. 
Presently  Uncle  Matt  appeared  round  the  rose-bushes.  IT 
had  his  market  basket  on  his  arm  and  wore  a  thoughtful 
countenance. 

"  Uncle  Matt!  "  Rupert  called  out  to  him.  "  I  wish  you 
would  come  here." 

Notwithstanding  his  darkling  moods,  he  was  in  a  subtle 
way  singularly  like  Delia  Yanuxem.  He  needed  love  and 
tenderness,  and  he  was  boy  enough  yet  to  be  unhappy  and 
desolate  through  lack  of  them,  though  without  quite  know- 
ing why.  He  knew  Uncle  Matt  loved  him,  and  the  affection- 
ate care  the  old  man  surrounded  him  with  was  like  a  warm 
robe  wrapped  about  a  creature  suffering  from  chill.  He  had 
not  analyzed  his  feeling  himself;  he  only  knew  that  he  liked 
to  hear  his  footsteps  as  he  pottered  about  the  house,  and 
when  he  was  at  his  dreariest,  he  was  glad  to  see  him  come 
in,  and  to  talk  a  little  to  him. 

Uncle  Matt  came  towards  him  briskly.  He  set  his  basket 
down  and  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Marse  Rupert,"  he  said,  "  dis  hyer's  a  pow'fle  scorcher 
of  a  mawnin'.  Dem  young  lawyers  as  shets  up  dey  office 
an'  comes  home  to  lie  in  de  grass  in  de  shade,  dey  is  follerin' 
up  dey  perfession  in  de  profitablest  way — what'll  be  likeh 
to  bring  'em  de  mos'  clients,  'cause,  sho's  yo'  bawn,  dere's 
sunstroke  an'  'cussion  or  de  brain  just  lopin'  roun'  dis 
town — en  a  little  hot  brick  office  ain't  no  place  for  a 
young  man  what  got  any  dispect  fur  his  next  birfday. 
Dat's  so." 

"  I  haven't  much  respect  for  mine,"  said  Rupert;  "  I've 
had  twenty-two  too  many — just  twenty-two." 

236 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 


'  me  sayin'  it,  sah,  but  dat  ain't  no  way  ter  talk. 
A  mai  boun'  to  have  some  dispect  for  his  birfday  —  he  loun' 
to!  Birfdays  gotter  be  took  keer  on.  Whar's  a  man  when 
he  runs  out  of  'em?" 

"  He'd  better  run  out  of  them  before  he  runs  out  of  every- 
thing else,"  said  Rupert.  "  Matt,  I've  just  made  two  dollars 
this  month." 

He  looked  at  the  old  man  with  a  restless  appeal  in  his 
big,  deer-like  eyes. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Matt,"  he  said,  "  I'm  terribly  sorry,  but 
you  know  —  we  can't  go  on." 

Uncle  Matthew  looked  down  at  the  grass  with  a  reflective 
air. 

"  Marse  Eupert,  did  you  never  heah  nothin'  'bout  your 
Uncle  Marse  Thomas  De  Willoughby  ?  " 

Rupert  was  silent  a  moment  before  he  answered,  but  it 
was  not  because  he  required  time  to  search  his  memory. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  then  was  silent  again.  He  had  heard 
of  poor  Tom  of  the  big  heart  from  his  mother,  and  there 
had  been  that  in  her  soft  speech  of  him  which  had  made 
the  great,  tender  creature  very  real.  Even  in  his  childhood 
his  mother  had  been  his  passion,  as  he  had  been  hers. 
Neither  of  them  had  had  others  to  share  their  affection,  and 
they  were  by  nature  creatures  born  to  love.  His  first  mem- 
ory had  been  of  looking  up  into  the  soft  darkness  of  the 
tender  eyes  which  were  always  brooding  over  him.  He  had 
been  little  more  than  a  baby  when  he  had  somehow  known 
that  they  were  very  sorrowful,  and  had  realised  that  he  loved 
them  more  because  of  their  sorrow.  He  had  been  little  older 
when  he  found  out  the  reason  of  their  sadness,  and  from 
that  time  he  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  watching  them 
and  knowing  their  every  look.  He  always  remembered  the 

237 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

look  they  wore  when  she  spoke  of  Tom  De  Willoughby, 
and  it  had  been  a  very  touching  one. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  to  Uncle  Matt,  "  I  have  heard  of  him." 

"  Dar  was  a  time,  a  long  way  back,  Marse  Rupert — 'fore 
you  was  borned — when  I  seemed  to  year  a  good  deal  'bout 
Marse  Thomas.  Dat  was  when  he  went  away  in  dat  curi's 
fashion.  Nobody  knowed  wliar  he  went,  an'  nobody  knowed 
quite  why.  It  wus  jes'  afore  ye'  maw  an'  paw  wus  married. 
Some  said  him  an'  de  Jedge  qua'lled  'cause  Marse  Thomas 
he  said  he  warn't  gwine  ter  be  no  medical  student,  an' 
some  said  he  was  in  love  with  some  young  lady  dat  wouldn't 
'cept  of  him." 

"Did  they?"  said  Eupert. 

"  Dat  dey  did,"  Matt  said;  "  an'  a  lot  moah.  But  ev'ry- 
body  think  it  mighty  strange  him  a-gwine,  an'  no  one  never 
huntin'  him  up  afterwards.  Seemed  most  like  dey  didn't 
keer  nothin'  'bout  him." 

"  They  didn't,  damn  them! "  said  Eupert,  with  sudden 
passion.  "  And  he  was  worth  the  whole  lot." 

"  Dat  what  make  I  say  what  I  gwine  ter,"  said  Matt,  with 
some  eagerness.  "  What  I  heerd  about  Marse  Thomas  make 
me  think  he  must  be  er  mighty  line  gen'leman,  an'  one 
what'd  be  a  good  fren'  to  anyone.  An'  dishyer  ve'y  mawnin' 
I  heerd  sump'n  mo'  about  him." 

Eupert  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow. 

"  About  Uncle  Tom!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  have  heard 
something  about  Uncle  Tom  to-day?" 

"I  foun'  out  whar  he  went,  Marse  Eupert,"  said  Matt, 
much  roused.  "  I  foun'  out  whar  he  is  dishyer  ve'y  instep. 
He's  in  Hamlin  County,  keepin'  sto'  an'  post-office  at  Tal- 
bot's  Cross-roads;  am',  frum  what  I  heah,  Marse  Tom  De 
"Willoughby  de  mos'  pop'larist  gen'leman  an'  mos'  looked 
up  ter  in  de  county." 

238 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughbj   Claim 

""Who — who  did  you  hear  it  from?"  demanded  Rupert. 

Uncle  Matt  put  his  foot  upon  a  rustic  seat  near  and  leaned 
forward,  resting  his  elbow  on  his  knee  and  making  im- 
pressive gestures  with  his  yellow-palmed  old  hand.  ' 

"  It  was  dishyer  claimin'  dat  brung  it  about/'  he  said; 
"  dishyer  claimin'  an'  'demnification  what's  been  a-settin' 
pow'fle  heavy  on  my  min'  fur  long  'nuff.  Soon's  I  yeerd 
tell  on  it,  Marse  Rupert,  it  set  me  ter  steddyin'.  I  been 
a-watchin'  out  an'  axin'  questions  fur  weeks,  an'  when  I 
fin>  out " 

"But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Uncle  Tom?"  cried 
Rupert. 

"  A  heap,  Marse  Rupert.  Him  an'  you  de  onliest  heirs 
to  de  De  Willoughby  estate;  an'  ef  a  little  hoosier  what's 
los'  a  yoke  er  oxen  kin  come  down  on  de  Guv'ment  for 
'demnification,  why  can't  de  heirs  of  a  gen'leman  dat  los' 
what  wus  gwine  ter  be  de  biggest  fortune  in  de  South'n 
States.  What's  come  er  dem  gold  mines,  Marse  Rupert, 
dat  wus  gwine  ter  make  yo'  grandpa  a  millionaire — whar  is 
dey?  What  de  Yankees  done  with  dem  gol'  mines?" 

"  They  weren't  gold  mines,  Uncle  Matt,"  said  Rupert; 
"  they  were  coal  mines;  and  the  Yankees  didn't  carry  them 
away.  They  only  smashed  up  the  machinery  and  ruined 
things  generally." 

But  he  laid  back  upon  the  grass  again  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head  and  his  brow  drawn  down  thought- 
fully. 

"  Coal  mines  er  gol'  mines,"  said  Uncle  Matt.  "  Guv'ment 
gotter  'demnify  ef  things  er  managed  right;  en  dat  what 
make  me  think  er  Marse  Thomas  De  Willoughby  when  dat 
little  Stamps  feller  said  somep'n  dat  soun'  like  his  name. 
'  Now  dar's  D'Willerby,'  he  ses,  '  big  Tom  D'Willerby/  en 

239 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

I  jest  jumped  on  him.  '  Did  you  say  De  Willoughby,  sah? ' 
I  ses,  an'  from  dat  I  foun'  out  de  rest." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Rupert;  "I  always 
thought  I  should  like  to  know  where  he  was — if  he  was 
alive." 

"  Why  doan'  you  go  an'  see  him,  den?  "  said  Matt.  "  Jest 
take  yo'  foot  in  yo'  han'  an'  start  out.  Hamlin  County 
ain't  fur,  Marse  Rupert,  an'  de  Cross-roads  Pos'-office  mighty 
easy  to  fin';  and  when  you  fin'  it  an'  yo'  uncle  settin'  in 
de  do',  you  jest  talk  ter  him  'bout  dem  goP  mines  an'  dat 
claimin'  business  an'  ax  his  devise  'bout  'em.  An'  ef  yer 
doan'  fin'  yo'se'f  marchin'  on  ter  Wash'n'ton  city  an'  a-talk- 
in'  to  de  Pres'dent  an'  de  Senators,  de  whole  kit  an'  bilin' 
of  'em,  Marse  Thomas  ain't  de  buz'ness  gen'l'man  what  I 
believe  he  is." 

Rupert  lay  still  and  looked  straight  before  him,  appar- 
ently at  a  bluebird  balanced  on  a  twig,  but  it  was  not  the 
bird  he  was  thinking  of. 

"  You'se  young,  Marse  Rupert,  an'  it  'ud  be  purty  dan- 
g'rous  for  a  onexperienced  young  gen'l'man  ter  Ian'  down 
in  de  midst  er  all  dem  onprinciple'  Yankees  with  a  claim 
to  hundreds  of  thousan's  of  dollars.  Marse  Thomas,  he's 
a  settled,  stiddy  gen'l'man,  en,  frum  what  I  hears,  I  guess 
he's  got  a  mighty  'stablished-lookin'  'pearance." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  Rupert  reflected  aloud.  "  I 
should  like  to  see  him." 


240 


CHAPTER   XX 

THE  years  had  passed  for  the  child  Sheba  so  sweetly,  and 
had  been  so  full  of  simple  joys  and  pleasures,  that  they 
seemed  a  panorama  of  lovely  changing  seasons,  each  a  thing 
of  delight.  There  was  the  spring,  when  she  trotted  by  Tom's 
side  into  the  garden  and  he  showed  her  the  little,  pale-green 
points  of  the  crocuses,  hyacinths,  and  tulips  pushing  their 
way  up  through  the  moist  brown  earth,  and  when  he  carried 
her  in  his  big  arms  into  the  woods  on  the  hillsides,  and  they 
saw  the  dogwood  covered  with  big  white  flowers  and  the 
wild  plum-trees  snowed  over  with  delicate  blooms,  and  found 
the  blue  violets  thick  among  the  wet  grass  and  leaves,  and 
the  frail  white  wind-flowers  quivering  on  their  stems.  As 
they  went  about  in  this  new  fairyland,  which  came  every 
year,  and  which  still  seemed  always  a  surprise,  it  was  their 
habit  to  talk  to  each  other  a  great  deal.  The  confidences 
they  had  exchanged  when  the  child  had  not  been  able  to 
speak,  and  which  Tom  had  nevertheless  understood,  were 
enchanting  things  when  she  became  older  and  they  strayed 
about  together  or  sat  by  the  fire.  Her  child  thoughts  an<? 
fancies  might  have  been  those  of  some  little  faun  or  dryad 
She  grew  up  among  green  things,  with  leaves  waving  above 
and  around  her,  the  sun  shining  upon  her,  and  the  moun- 
tains seeming  to  stand  on  guard,  looking  down  at  her  from 
day  to  day,  from  year  to  year.  From  behind  one  mountain 
the  sun  rose  every  morning,  and  she  always  saw  it;  and 
behind  another  it  sank  at  night.  After  the  spring  came 
the  summer,  when  the  days  were  golden  and  drowsy  and 

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hot,  and  there  were  roses  and  other  flowers  everywhere;  wild 
roses  in  the  woods  and  by  the  waysides,  heavy-headed  beau- 
ties in  their  own  garden,  and  all  the  beds  and  vines  a  fine 
riot  of  colour.  After  these  there  were  blackberries  thick 
on  their  long  brambles,  and  wild  grapes  in  the  woods,  and 
presently  a  delicious  snap  of  cold  in  the  clear  air  night  and 
morning,  and  the  trees  were  dropping  golden,  amber,  and 
scarlet  leaves,  while  under  the  pale  yellow  ones  which  rustled 
"beneath  the  chestnut-trees,  there  were  brown,  glossy  nuts, 
which  fell  one  by  one  with  a  delightful  suddenness  of  sound 
at  irregular  intervals.  There  were  big  chestnut-trees  in  the 
woods  near  their  house,  and  Tom  and  Sheba  used  to  go 
before  breakfast  to  look  for  the  nuts  which  had  fallen  in 
the  night.  Hamlin  County  always  rose  at  sunrise,  or  before 
it,  and  to  go  out  in  the  heavenly  fresh  morning  air  and  walk 
through  the  rustling,  thickly  fallen  yellow  leaves  under  the 
trees,  making  little  darts  of  joy  at  the  brown,  glossy  things 
bursting  through  their  big  burrs,  was  a  delicious,  exciting 
thing.  Mornin's  hot  breakfast  held  keen  delights  when  they 
returned  to  it. 

When  the  big  wood-fires  were  lighted  and  there  was  snow 
and  rain  outside,  and  yams  and  chestnuts  to  roast  in  the 
ashes,  and  stories  to  be  told  and  talked  over  in  the  glow  of 
the  red  birch-log  and  snapping,  flaming  hickory  sticks,  the 
child  used  to  feel  as  if  she  and  Uncle  Tom  were  even  nearer 
together  and  more  comfortable  than  at  any  other  time. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said  to  him,  as  she  was  standing  in  the 
circle  of  his  arm  on  one  such  night,  when  she  was  about 
ten  years  old.  "  Uncle  Tom,  we  do  love  each  other  in  the 
winter,  don't  we?  " 

"  Yes,  we  do,  Sheba,"  answered  Tom.  "  And  we're  pretty 
partial  to  each  other  even  in  the  summer." 

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"  We  love  each  other  at  all  the  times/'  she  said.  "  And 
every  morning  that  I  get  up  I  love  you  more  than  I  did 
when  I  went  to  bed — every  morning,  Uncle  Tom." 

Tom  kissed  her.  He  remembered  what  he  had  said  one 
morning  in  the  cabin  in  Blair's  Hollow  ten  years  before. 

"  Perhaps,  if  there's  no  one  to  come  between  us,  she  may 
be  fond  of  me." 

She  was  fond  of  him.  He  was  her  very  little  life  itself. 
No  one  had  ever  come  between — nothing  ever  could. 

She  had  by  that  time  shot  up  into  a  tall,  slender  slip 
of  a  girl-child.  She  was  passing,  even  with  a  kind  of  dis- 
tinction, through  the  stage  of  being  all  long,  slim  legs 
and  big  eyes.  The  slim  legs  were  delicately  modelled  and 
the  big  eyes  were  like  pools  of  gold-brown  water,  fringed 
with  rushes. 

"  I  never  seen  a  young  'un  at  thet  thar  young  colty  age 
es  was  es  han'some  es  thet  child  o'  Big  Tom's,"  Mis'  Doty 
often  remarked. 

By  the  frequenters  of  the  Cross-roads  Post-office  she  was 
considered,  as  was  her  protector,  a  county  institution.  When 
she  had  reached  three  years  old,  she  had  been  measured 
against  the  wall,  and  each  year  her  increase  of  inches  was 
recorded  amid  lively  demonstrations  of  interest.  The  small- 
)ness  of  her  feet  had  also  been  registered,  and  the  thickness 
and  growth  of  her  curling  hair  ranked  as  a  subject  of  dis- 
cussion only  second  in  interest  to  the  development  of  crops. 

But  this  affection  notwithstanding,  a  curious  respect  for 
her  existed.  She  had  played  among  them  in  the  store  in 
her  little  dusty  pinafore;  one  and  all  of  them  had  given  her 
rustic  offerings,  bringing  her  special  gifts  of  yellow  popcorn 
ears,  or  abnormal  yams  unexpectedly  developed  in  their  own 
gardens,  or  bags  of  hickory  nuts;  but  somehow  they  did  not 

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think  or  speak  of  her  as  they  did  of  each  other's  chil- 
dren. 

Tom  had  built  a  comfortable  white  house,  over  whose 
verandah  honeysuckles  and  roses  sgon  clambered  and  hung.1 
In  time  the  ground  enclosed  about  it  had  a  curious  likeness" 
to  the  bowery  unrestraint  of  the  garden  he  had  played  in 
during  his  childhood.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  him  to  lay  it  out 
on  the  old  plan  and  to  plant  japonicas,  flowering  almonds, 
and  syringa  bushes,  as  they  had  grown  in  the  days  when  he 
had  played  under  them  as  a  child,  or  lounged  on  the  grass 
near  them  as  a  boy.  He  and  Sheba  planted  everything  them- 
selves— or,  rather,  Sheba  walked  about  with  him  or  stood 
by  his  side  and  talked  while  he  worked.  In  time  she  knew 
almost  as  well  as  he  did  the  far-away  garden  he  took  as  his 
model.  She  learned  to  know  the  place  by  heart. 

"  Were  you  a  little  boy  then,  Uncle  Tom  ?  "  she  would 
say,  "  when  there  was  a  mock-orange  and  a  crape  myrtle  next 
to  the  big  yellow  rose-bush  ?  " 

There  were  even  times  when  he  found  her  memory  was 
better  than  his  own,  and  she  could  correct  him. 

"  Ah!  no,  Uncle  Tom,"  she  would  say;  "  the  pansies  were 
not  in  the  little  heart-shaped  bed;  they  were  all  round  the 
one  with  the  pink  harp-flower  in  the  middle." 

When  she  was  six  years  old  he  sent  for  some  books  and 
began  seriously  to  work  with  a  view  to  refreshing  his  mem- 
ory on  subjects  almost  forgotten. 

"  I'm  preparing  myself  for  a  nursery  governess,  Sheba," 
he  said.  "  What  we  want  is  a  nursery  governess,  and  I  don't 
know  where  to  find  one.  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  manage 
her  if  I  did  find  her,  so  I've  got  to  post  up  for  the  position 
myself." 

The  child  was  so  happy  with  him  in  all  circumstances, 
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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

that  it  was  easy  to  teach  her  anything.  She  had  learned 
to  read  and  write  before  she  discovered  that  the  process  she 
went  through  to  acquire  these  accomplishments  was  not  an 
agreeable  pastime  specially  invented  by  Tom  for  her  amuse- 
ment. At  eleven  years  old  she  had  become  so  interested 
in  her  work  that  she  was  quite  an  excited  little  student.  By 
the  time  she  was  twelve  Tom  began  to  shake  his  head  at  her. 

"  If  you  go  on  like  this,"  he  said,  "  I  sha'n't  be  able  to 
keep  up  with  you,  and  what  I've  got  to  do  is  to  keep  ahead. 
If  I  can't,  I  shall  have  to  send  you  to  the  Academy  at 
Ralston;  and  how  should  we  stand  that?" 

She  came  and  sat  upon  his  big  knee — a  slim  little  thing,. 
as  light  as  a  bird. 

"  We  couldn't  stand  it,  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said.  "  We  have 
to  be  together.  We  always  have  been,  haven't  we?  "  And 
she  rubbed  her  ruffled  head  against  his  huge  breast. 

"  Yes,  we  always  have  been,"  answered  Tom;  "  and  it 
would  go  pretty  hard  with  us  to  make  a  change,  Sheba." 

She  was  not  sent  to  Ralston.  The  war  broke  out  and  al- 
tered the  aspect  of  things  even  at  the  Cross-roads.  The  bank 
in  which  Tom's  modest  savings  were  deposited  was  swept 
away  by  misfortune;  the  primitive  resources  of  Hamlin 
County  were  depleted,  as  the  resources  of  all  the  land  were. 
But  for  the  existence  of  the  white,  vine-embowered  house 
and  the  garden  full  of  scents  and  bloom,  Tom's  position 
at  the  close  of  the  rebellion  was  far  less  fortunate  than  it 
had  been  at  the  time  the  mystery  of  Blair's  Hollow  had  oc- 
curred. In  those  old,  happy-go-lucky  days  the  three  rooms 
behind  the  store  and  the  three  meals  Mornin  cooked  for  him 
had  been  quite  sufficient  for  free  and  easy  peace.  He  had 
been  able  to  ensure  himself  these  primitive  comforts  with 
so  little  expenditure  that  money  had  scarcely  seemed  aa  ob- 

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Ject.  He  had  taken  eggs  in  exchange  for  sugar,  bacon  in 
exchange  for  tea,  and  butter  in  exchange  for  everything. 
"Now  he  had  no  means  of  resource  but  the  store,  and  the 
people  were  poorer  than  they  had  been.  Farms  had  gone 
to  temporary  ruin  through  unavoidable  neglect  during  the 
absence  of  their  masters.  More  than  one  honest  fellow  had 
marched  away  and  never  returned,  and  their  widows  were 
left  to  struggle  with  the  land  and  their  children.  The  Cross- 
roads store,  which  had  thriven  so  wonderfully  for  a  year 
or  two  before  the  breaking  out  of  the  war,  began  to  wear 
a  less  cheerful  aspect.  As  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned, 
Tom  knew  that  life  was  a  simple  enough  thing,  but  by  his 
side  there  was  growing  up  a  young  goddess.  She  was  not 
aware  that  she  was  a  young  goddess.  There  was  no  one  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  Cross-roads  who  could  have  informed 
her  that  she  presented  somewhat  of  that  aspect,  and  that 
she  was  youth  and  happiness  and  Nature's  self  at  once. 

Tom  continually  indulged  in  deep  reflection  on  his  charge 
after  she  was  twelve  years  old.  She  shot  up  into  the  tall 
suppleness  of  a  lovely  young  birch,  and  she  was  a  sweetly 
glowing  thing.  A  baby  had  been  a  different  matter;  the 
baby  had  not  been  so  difficult  to  manage;  but  when  he  found 
himself  day  by  day  confronting  the  sweetness  of  child-wom- 
anhood in  the  eyes  that  were  gold-brown  pools,  and  the  soft- 
ening grace  of  the  fair  young  body,  he  began  to  be  conscious 
of  something  like  alarm.  He  was  not  at  all  sure  what  he 
ought  to  do  at  this  crisis,  and  whether  life  confining  its 
experiences  entirely  to  Talbot's  Cross-roads  was  all  that  was 
required. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it's  right,  by  thunder,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  know  whether  it's  right;  and  that's  what  a  man 
who's  taken  the  place  of  a  young  mother  ought  to  know." 

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There  came  a  Sunday  when  one  of  the  occasional  "  preach- 
ings "  was  to  be  held  at  the  log-cabin  church  a  few  miles 
distant,  and  they  were  going  together,  as  they  always  did. 

It  was  a  heavenly,  warm  spring  morning,  and  Sheba,  hav- 
ing made  herself  ready,  wandered  into  the  garden  to  wait 
among  the  flowers.  The  rapturous  first  scents  of  the  year 
were  there,  drawn  by  the  sun  and  blown  by  vagrant  puffs 
of  wind  from  hyacinths  and  jonquils,  white  narcissus  and 
blue  violets.  Sheba  walked  among  the  beds,  every  few  min- 
utes kneeling  down  upon  the  grass  to  bury  her  face  in  pink 
and  yellow  and  white  clusters,  inhaling  the  breath  of  flowers 
and  the  pungent  freshness  of  the  sweet  brown  earth  at  the 
same  time.  She  had  lived'among  leaves  and  growing  things 
until  she  felt  herself  in  some  unexplainable  way  a  part  of 
the  world  they  belonged  to.  The  world  beyond  the  moun- 
tains she  knew  nothing  of;  but  this  world,  which  was  the 
brown  earth  springing  forth  into  green  blades  and  leaves  and 
little  streaked  buds,  warming  into  bloom  and  sun-drenched 
fragrance,  setting  the  birds  singing  and  nest-building,  giv- 
ing fruits  and  grain,  and  yellow  and  scarlet  leaves,  and 
folding  itself  later  in  snow  and  winter  sleep — this  world 
she  knew  as  well  as  she  knew  herself.  The  birds  were  sing- 
ing and  nest-building  this  morning,  and,  as  she  hung  over 
a  bed  of  purple  and  white  hyacinths,  kneeling  on  the  grass 
and  getting  as  close  to  them  as  she  could,  their  perfume 
mounted  to  her  brain  and  she  began  to  kiss  them. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said,  dwelling  on  their  sweet  coolness 
with  her  lips;  "  I  love  and  love  you!  "  And  suddenly  she 
made  a  little  swoop  and  kissed  the  brown  earth  itself.  "  And, 
oh!  I  love  you,  too!  "  she  said.  "  I  love  you,  too!  " 

She  looked  like  young  spring's  self  when  she  stood  up 
as  Tom  came  towards  her.  Her  smile  was  so  radiant  a 

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thing  that  he  felt  his  heart  quake  with  no  other  reason 
than  this  sight  of  her  happy  youth. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Sheba  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  she  said,  as  she  glanced  all  about  her, . 
the  smile  growing  more  entrancing,  "  I  am  thinking  how 
happy  I  am,  and  how  happy  the  world  is,  and  how  I  love 
you,  and,"  with  a  pretty  laugh,  "  the  flowers,  and  the  sun, 
and  the  earth — and  everything  in  the  world!  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  looking  at  her  tenderly.  "  It's  the 
spring,  Sheba." 

She  caught  his  arm  and  clung  to  it,  laughing  again. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered;  "  and  when  it  isn't  the  spring,  it 
is  the  summer;  and  when  it  isn't  the  summer,  it  is  the  au- 
tumn; and  when  it  isn't  the  autumn,  it  is  the  winter;  and 
we  sit  by  the  fire  and  know  the  spring  is  making  its  way 
back  every  day.  Everything  is  beautiful — everything  is 
happy,  Uncle  Tom." 

"  Good  Lord!  "  exclaimed  Tom. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  Sheba  asked.  "Why  do  you 
look  so — so  puzzled,  Uncle  Tom?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  holding  her  out  at  arm's  length  before 
him,  "  the  truth  is,  I've  suddenly  realised  something.  I'd 
like  to  know  what  I'm  to  do  with  this !  " 

"This?"  laughed  Sheba.  "Am  I  'this'?  You  look 
at  me  as  if  I  was  '  this '." 

"  You  are,"  Tom  answered,  ruefully.  "  Here  you  sud- 
denly change  to  a  young  woman  on  a  man's  hands.  Now, 
what  am  I  to  do  with  a  grown-up  young  woman?  I'm  used 
to  babies,  and  teething,  and  swallowing  kangaroos  out  of 
Noah's  arks — and  I  know  something  of  measles  and  letting 
tucks  out  of  frocks;  but  when  it  comes  to  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  there  you  have  me!  " 

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He  shook  his  head  as  he  ended,  and,  though  his  face  wore 
the  affectionate,  humorous  smile  which  had  never  failed  her, 
there  was  a  new  element  in  its  kindness  which,  it  must  be 
confessed,  bordered  on  bewilderment. 

"  A  beautiful,  grown-up  young  woman,"  he  said,  glancing 
reflectively  over  her  soft,  swaying  slimness,  her  white  frock 
with  its  purple  ribbon  and  golden  jonquils,  and  up  to  her 
tender  cheek. 

Sheba  blushed  with  sweet  delight. 

"  Am  I  beautiful,  Uncle  Tom?  "  she  inquired,  with  a 
lovely  anxiousness  in  her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  you  are,"  admitted  Tom;  "  and  it  isn't  a  drawback 
to  you,  Sheba,  but  it's  likely  to  make  trouble  for  me." 

"But  why?"  she  said. 

"  In  novels,  and  poetry,  and  sometimes  in  real  life, 
beautiful  young  women  are  fallen  in  love  with,  and  then 
trouble  is  liable  to  begin,"  explained  Tom  with  amiable 
gravity. 

"  There  is  no  one  to  fall  in  love  with  me  at  the  Cross- 
roads," said  Sheba,  sweetly.  "  I  wish  there  was." 

"  Good  Lord,"  exclaimed  Tom,  devoutly.  "  Come  along 
to  church,  Sheba,  and  let's  go  in  for  fasting  and  prayer." 

He  took  her  to  the  "  preaching  "  in  the  log  cabin  and  no- 
ticed the  effect  of  her  entry  on  the  congregation  as  they 
went  in.  There  were  a  number  of  more  or  less  awkward  and 
raw-boned  young  male  creatures  whose  lives  were  spent  chief- 
ly in  cornfields  and  potato  patches.  They  were  uncomely 
hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,  but  they  turned  their 
heads  to  look  at  her,  and  their  eyes  followed  her  as  she 
went  to  her  seat.  When  she  had  sat  down,  those  who  could 
catch  glimpses  of  her  involuntarily  craned  their  necks  and 
eat  in  discomfort  until  the  sermon  was  over.  Tom  recog- 

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nised  this  fact,  and  in  secret  reflected  upon  it  in  all  its 
bearings. 

"  Yes,"  he  found  himself  saying,  mentally;  "  I'd  like  to 
know  how  I'm  going  to  do  my  duty  by  this.  I  don't  believe 
there's  a  derned  thing  about  it  in  *  Advice  to  Young 
Mothers.' " 

The  day  wore  on  to  its  lovely  end,  and  lost  itself  in  one 
of  the  sunsets  which  seem  to  flood  the  sky  with  a  tide  of 
ripples  of  melted  gold,  here  and  there  tipped  with  flame. 
When  this  was  over,  a  clear,  fair  moon  hung  lighted  in  the 
heavens,  and,  flooding  with  silver  what  had  been  flooded 
with  gold,  changed  the  flame-tips  to  pearl. 

Sheba  strayed  in  the  garden  among  the  flowers.  Tom, 
sitting  under  the  vines  of  the  porch,  watched  her  white  figure 
straying  in  and  out  among  the  shrubbery.  At  last  he  saw 
her  standing  on  the  grass  in  the  full  radiance  of  the  moon- 
light, her  hands  hanging  clasped  behind  her  and  her  face 
turned  upward  to  the  sky.  As  she  had  wandered  about,  she 
had  done  a  fanciful  thing.  She  had  made  a  wreath  of  white 
narcissus  and  laid  it  on  her  hair,  and  she  had  twisted  together 
a  sort  of  long  garland  of  the  same  blossoms  and  cast  it  loosely 
round  her  waist. 

"  She  never  did  that  before,"  Tom  said,  as  he  watched  her. 
"  Good  Lord!  what  a  picture  she  is,  standing  there  with  her 
face  lifted.  I  wonder  what  she's  thinking  of." 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said,  when  she  sauntered  back  to  him, 
"  does  the  moonlight  make  you  feel  sad  without  being  un- 
happy at  all?  That  is  what  it  does  to  me." 

"  It's  the  spring,  Sheba,"  he  said,  as  he  had  said  it  in  the 
morning;  "  it's  the  spring." 

She  saw  that  he  was  looking  at  her  flower  garlands,  and 
she  broke  into  a  shy  little  laugh. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  You  see  what  you  have  done  to  me,  Uncle  Tom,"  she 
said;  "  now  you  have  told  me  I  am  a  beautiful  young  woman, 
I  shall  always  be  doing  things  to — to  make  myself  look  pret- 
tier." 

She  came  on  to  the  verandah  to  him,  and  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  her. 

"  That's  the  spring,  too,  Sheba,"  he  said. 

She  yielded  as  happily  and  naturally  to  the  enfolding  of  his 
big  arm  in  these  days  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  a  baby. 
No  one  but  themselves  knew  what  they  were  to  each  other. 

They  had  always  talked  things  over  together — their  affec- 
tion, their  pleasures,  their  simple  anxieties  and  responsibili- 
ties. They  had  discussed  her  playthings  in  the  first  years 
of  their  friendship  and  her  lessons  when  she  had  been  a 
little  girl.  To-night  the  subject  which  began  to  occupy 
them  had  some  seriousness  of  aspect.  The  changes  time 
and  the  tide  of  war  had  made  were  bringing  Tom  face  to 
face  with  a  difficulty  his  hopeful,  easy-going  nature  had 
never  contemplated  with  any  realising  sense — the  want  of 
money,  even  the  moderate  amount  the  requirements  of  their 
simple  lives  made  necessary. 

"  It's  the  taxes  that  a  man  can't  stand  up  against,"  Tom 
said.  "  You  may  cut  off  all  you  like,  and  wear  your  old 
clothes,  but  there's  a  liveliness  about  taxes  that  takes  the 
sand  out  of  you.  Talk  about  the  green  bay-tree  flourishing 
and  increasing,  all  a  tax  wants  is  to  be  let  alone  a  few  years. 
It'll  come  to  its  full  growth  without  any  sunning  or  watering. 
Mine  have  had  to  be  left  alone  for  a  while,  and — well,  here 
we  are — another  year,  and " 

"  Will  the  house  be  taken?  "  Sheba  asked. 

"  If  I  can't  pay  up,  it'll  all  go — house  and  store  and  all," 
Tom  answered.  "  Then  we  shall  have  to  go  too." 

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He  turned  and  looked  ruefully  at  the  face  beneath  the 
wreath  of  white  narcissus. 

"  I  wish  it  hadn't  come  on  us  just  now,"  he  said.  "  There's 
(10  particular  season  that  trouble  adds  a  charm  to;  but-  it 
,  seems  to  me  that  it's  not  entitled  to  the  spring." 

When  she  went  upstairs  she  did  not  go  to  bed.  The  moon- 
light lured  her  out  into  the  night  again.  Outside  her  win- 
dow there  was  a  little  balcony.  It  was  only  of  painted  wood, 
as  the  rest  of  the  house  was,  but  a  multiflora  rose  had  climbed 
over  it  and  hung  it  with  a  wonderful  drapery,  and,  as  she 
stood  upon  it,  she  unconsciously  made  herself  part  of  a 
picture  almost  strange  in  its  dramatic  quality. 

She  looked  out  over  the  sleeping  land  to  the  mountains 
standing  guard. 

"  Where  should  we  go  ?  "  she  said.  "  The  world  is  on  the 
other  side." 

She  was  not  in  the  mood  to  observe  sound,  or  she  would 
have  heard  the  clear  stroke  of  a  horse's  hoofs  on  the  road. 
She  did  not  even  hear  the  opening  of  the  garden  gate.  She 
was  lost  in  the  silver  beauty  of  the  night,  and  a  vague  dream- 
ing which  had  fallen  upon  her.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
purple  of  the  mountains  was  the  world.  It  had  always 
been  there  and  she  had  always  been  here.  Presently  she 
found  herself  sighing  aloud,  though  she  could  not  have 
told  why. 

"  Ah!  "  she  said  as  softly  as  young  Juliet.    "  Ah,  me!  " 

As  she  could  not  have  told  why  she  sighed,  so  there  was 
no  explanation  of  the  fact  that,  having  done  so,  she  looked 
downward  to  the  garden  path,  as  if  something  had  drawn 
her  eyes  there.  It  is  possible  that  some  attraction  had  so 
drawn  them,  for  she  found  herself  looking  into  a  young,  up- 
turned face — the  dark,  rather  beautiful  face  of  a  youth  who 

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stood  and  looked  upward  as  if  he  had  stopped  involuntarily 
at  sight  of  her. 

She  drew  back  with  a  little  start  and  then  bent  her  Nar- 
cissus-crowned head  forward. 

"  Who — who  is  it?  "  she  exclaimed. 

He  started  himself  at  the  sound  of  her  voice.  She  had  in- 
deed looked  scarcely  a  real  creature  a  few  moments  ago.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  answered: 

"  I  am  Eupert  De  Willoughby/'  he  said.  "  I  beg  pardon 
for  disturbing  you.  It  startled  me  to  see  you  standing  there. 
I  came  to  see  Mr.  Thomas  De  Willoughby." 

It  was  a  singular  situation.  Perhaps  the  moonlight  had 
something  to  do  with  it;  perhaps  the  spring.  They  stood 
and  looked  at  each  other  quite  simply,  as  if  they  did  not 
know  that  they  were  strangers.  A  young  dryad  and  faun 
meeting  on  a  hilltop  or  in  a  forest's  depths  by  moonlight 
might  have  looked  at  each  other  with  just  such  clear,  un- 
startled  eyes,  and  with  just  such  pleasure  in  each  other's 
beauty.  For,  of  a  truth,  each  one  was  thinking  the  same 
thing,  innocently  and  with  a  sudden  gladness. 

As  he  had  come  up  the  garden-path,  Eobert  had  seen 
a  vision  and  had  stopped  unconsciously  that  instant.  And 
Sheba,  looking  down,  had  seen  a  vision  too — a  beautiful  face 
as  young  as  her  own,  and  with  eyes  that  glowed. 

"  You  don't  k'now  what  you  looked  like  standing  there,'' 
said  Rupert,  as  simply  as  the  young  faun  might  have  spoken. 
"  It  was  as  if  you  wrere  a  spirit.  The  flowers  in  your  hair 
looked  like  great  white  stars." 

"Did  they?"  she  said,  and  stood  and  softly  gazed  at 
him. 

How  the  boy  looked  up  at  her  young  loveliness!  He  had 
never  so  looked  at  any  woman  before.  And  then  a  thought 

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detached  itself  from  the  mists  of  memory  and  he  seemed 
to  remember. 

"  Are  you  Sheba?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Sheba/'  she  answered,  rather  slowly.  "  And 
I  remember  you,  too.  You  are  the  boy." 

He  drew  nearer  to  the  balcony,  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
multiflora  rose  creeper. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  almost  tremulous  with  eagerness. 
"  You  bring  it  all  back.  You  were  a  little  child,  and  I " 

"  You  rode  away,"  she  said,  "  over  the  hill." 

"Will  you  come  down  to  me?"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  and  that  moment  disappeared. 

He  stood  in  the  moonlight,  his  head  bared,  his  straw  hat 
in  his  hand.  He  felt  as  if  he  was  in  a  dream.  His  face  had 
lost  its  gloom  and  yearning,  and  his  eyes  looked  like  his 
mother's. 

When  he  heard  a  light  foot  nearing  him,  he  went  forward, 
and  they  met  with  strange  young  smiles  and  took  each  other's 
hands.  Nearer  than  the  balcony,  she  was  even  a  sweeter 
thing,  and  the  scent  of  her  white  flowers  floated  about  her. 

As  they  stood  so,  smiling,  Tom  came  and  joined  them. 
Sheba  had  called  him  as  she  passed  his  door. 

Eupert  turned  round  and  spoke,  vaguely  conscious,  as 
he  did  so,  that  his  words  sounded  somewhat  like  words  ut- 
tered in  a  dream  and  were  not  such  as  he  had  planned. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  he  said,  "  I — Delia  Yanuxem  was  my 
mother." 


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CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  moment  ceased  to  be  so  fanciful  and  curiously  ex- 
alted when  his  hand  was  grasped  and  a  big,  kind  palm  laid 
-on  his  shoulder,  though  Tom's  face  was  full  of  emotion. 

"  I  think  I  should  have  known  it,"  he  said.  "  Welcome 
to  you.  Yes,"  looking  at  him  with  an  affection  touched 
•with  something  like  reverence.  "Yes,  indeed — Delia 
Vanuxem! " 

"  I've  come  to  you,"  the  young  fellow  said,  with  fine  sim- 
plicity, "  because  I  am  the  only  De  Willoughby  left  except 
yourself.  I  am  young  and  I'm  lonely — and  my  mother 
always  said  you  had  the  kindest  heart  she  ever  knew.  I 
want  you  to  advise  me." 

"  Come  in  to  the  porch,"  said  Tom,  "  and  let  us  sit  down 
and  talk  it  over." 

He  put  his  arm  about  Sheba  and  kept  his  hand  on  Ru- 
pert's shoulder,  and  walked  so,  with  one  on  either  side,  to 
the  house.  Between  their  youthful  slimness  he  moved  like 
a,  protecting  giant. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  he  asked  when  they  sat 
down. 

"  From  Delisleville,"  Rupert  answered.  "  I  did  not  think 
<of  coming  here  so  late  to-night,  but  it  seems  I  must  have 
missed  my  road.  I  was  going  to  ask  for  lodgings  at  a  place 
called  Willet's  Farm.  I  suppose  I  took  the  wrong  turning; 
and  when  I  saw  this  house  before  me,  I  knew  it  must  be 
yours  from  what  I  had  heard  of  it.  It  seemed  as  if  Fate 

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had  brought  me  here.  *  And  when  I  came  up  the  path  I 
saw  Sheba.  She  was  standing  on  the  little  verandah  in  the 
moonlight  with  the  roses  all  around  her;  and  she  looked 
so  white  that  I  stopped  to  look  up  at  her." 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  said  Sheba,  "  we — we  knew  each  other." 

"  Did  you?  "  said  Tom.    "  That's  right." 

His  middle-aged  heart  surprised  him  by  giving  one  quick, 
soft  beat.  He  smiled  to  himself  after  he  had  felt  it. 

"  The  first  moment  or  so  I  only  stood  and  looked,"  Rupert 
said;  "  I  was  startled." 

"  And  so  was  I,"  said  Sheba. 

"  But  when  she  leaned  forward  and  looked  down  on  me," 
he  went  on,  "  I  remembered  something " 

"  So  did  I,"  said  Sheba.  "  I  leaned  forward  like  that  and 
looked  down  at  you  from  the  porch  at  the  tavern — all  those 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  little  child." 

"  And  I  looked  up  at  you — and  afterwards  I  asked  about 
you,"  said  Rupert.  "  It  all  came  back  when  you  spoke  to- 
night, and  I  knew  you  must  be  Sheba." 

"  You  knew  my  name,  but  I  did  not  know  yours,"  said 
Sheba.  "  But,  after  all,"  rather  as  if  consoling  herself, 
"  Sheba  is  not  my  real  name.  I  have  another  one." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  young  fellow,  quite  eagerly. 
His  eyes  had  scarcely  left  her  face  an  instant.  She  was 
standing  by  Tom's  chair  and  her  hands  were  on  his  shoulders. 

"  It  is  Felicia,"  she  said.  "  Uncle  Tom  gave  it  to  me — 
because  he  wanted  me  to  be  happy."  And  she  curved  a 
slim  arm  round  Tom's  neck  and  kissed  him. 

It  was  the  simplest,  prettiest  thing  a  man  could  have  seen. 
Her  life  had  left  her  nature  as  pure  and  translucent  as  the 
clearest  brook.  She  had  had  no  one  to  compare  herself 
with  or  to  be  made  ashamed  or  timid  by.  She  knew  only 

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her  own  heart  and  Tom's  love,  and  she  smiled  as  radiantly 
into  the  lighting  face  before  her  as  she  would  have  smiled 
at  a  rose,  or  at  a  young  deer  she  had  met  in  the  woods. 
No  one  had  ever  looked  at  her  in  this  way  before,  but  being 
herself  a  thing  which  had  grown  like  a  flower,  she  felt  no 
shyness,  and  was  only  glad.  Eve  might  have  smiled  at  Adam 
€0  in  their  first  hours. 

Big  Tom,  sitting  between  them,  saw  it  all.  A  man  cannot 
live  a  score  of  years  and  more,  utterly  cut  off  from  the  life 
of  the  world,  without  having  many  a  long  hour  for  thought 
in  which  he  will  inevitably  find  himself  turning  over  the 
problems  which  fill  the  life  he  has  missed.  Tom  De  Wil- 
loughby had  had  many  of  them.  He  had  had  no  one  to 
talk  to  whose  mind  could  have  worked  with  his  own.  On 
winter  nights,  when  Sheba  had  been  asleep,  he  had  found 
himself  gazing  into  the  red  embers  of  his  wood  fire  and 
pondering  on  the  existence  he  might  have  led  if  fate  had 
been  good  to  him. 

"  There  must  be  happiness  on  the  earth  somewhere,"  he 
would  say.  "  Somewhere  there  ought  to  have  been  a  woman 
I  belonged  to,  and  who  belonged  to  me.  It  ought  all  to 
have  been  as  much  nature  as  the  rain  falling  and  the  corn 
ripening  in  the  sun.  If  we  had  met  when  we  were  young 
things — on  the  very  brink  of  it  all — and  smiled  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  taken  each  other's  hands,  and  kissed  each 
other's  lips,  we  might  have  ripened  together  like  the  corn. 
What  is  it  that's  gone  wrong  ?  "  All  the  warm  normal  affec- 
tions of  manhood,  which  might  have  remained  undeveloped 
and  been  cast  away,  had  been  lavished  on  the  child  Sheba. 
She  had  represented  his  domestic  circle. 

"  You  mayn't  know  it,  Sheba,"  he  had  said  once  to  her, 
"but  you're  a  pretty  numerous  young  person.  You're  a 

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man's  wife  and  family,  arid  mother  and  sisters,  and  at  least 
half  a  dozen  boys  and  girls." 

All  his  thoughts  had  concentrated  themselves  upon  her — 
all  his  psychological  problems  had  held  her  as  their  centre, 
all  his  ethical  reasonings  had  applied  themselves  to  her. 

"  She's  got  to  be  happy,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  she's 
got  to  be  strong  enough  to  stand  up  under  unhappiness,  if 
• — if  I  should  be  taken  away  from  her.  When  the  great  thing 
that's — that's  the  meaning  of  it  all — and  the  reason  of  it — 
conies  into  her  life,  it  ought  to  come  as  naturally  as  summer 
does.  If  her  poor  child  of  a  mother — Good  Lord!  Good 
Lord! " 

And  here  he  sat  in  the  moonlight,  and  Delia  Vanuxem's 
son  was  looking  at  her  with  ardent,  awakened  young  eyes. 

How  she  listened  as  Eupert  told  his  story,  and  how  sweetly 
she  was  moved  by  the  pathos  of  it.  Once  or  twice  she  made 
an  involuntary  movement  forward,  as  if  she  was  drawn  to- 
wards him,  and  uttered  a  lovely  low  exclamation  which  was 
a  little  like  the  broken  coo  of  a  dove.  Rupert  did  not  know 
that  there  was  pathos  in  his  relation.  He  made  only  a  simple 
picture  of  things,  but  as  he  went  on  Tom  saw  all  the  effect 
of  the  hot  little  town  left  ruined  and  apathetic  after  the 
struggle  of  war,  the  desolateness  of  the  big  house  empty  but 
for  its  three  rooms,  its  bare  floors  echoing  to  the  sound  of 
the  lonely  pair  of  feet,  the  garden  grown  into  a  neglected 
jungle,  the  slatternly  negro  girl  in  the  kitchen  singing  wild 
camp-meeting  hymns  as  she  went  about  her  careless  work. 

"  It  sounds  so  lonely,"  Sheba  said,  with  tender  monrn- 
fulness. 

"  That  was  what  it  was — lonely,"  Rupert  answered.  "  It's 
been  a  different  place  since  Matt  came,  but  it  has  always 
been  lonely.  Uncle  Tom,"  putting  his  hand  on  the  big  knee 

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near  him,  as  impulsively  as  a  child,  "  I  love  that  old  Matt- 
Hove  him!" 

"  Ah,  so  do  I!  "  burst  forth  Sheba.  "  Don't  you,  Uncle 
Tom?"  And  she  put  her  hand  on  the  other  knee. 

Rupert  looked  down  at  the  hand.  It  was  so  fair  and  seft 
and  full  of  the  expression  of  sympathy — such  an  adorably 
womanly  little  hand,  that  one's  first  impulse  was  to  lay 
one's  own  upon  it.  He  made  a  movement  and  then  remem- 
bered, and  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met  and  rested  on 
each  other  gently. 

When  the  subject  of  the  claim  was  broached,  Sheba 
thought  it  like  a  fairy  tale.  She  listened  almost  with  bated 
breath.  As  Rupert  had  not  realised  that  he  was  pathetic 
in  the  relation  of  the  first  part  of  his  story,  so  he  did  not 
know  that  he  was  picturesque  in  this.  But  his  material  had 
strong  colour.  The  old  man  on  the  brink  of  splendid  fort- 
une, the  strange,  unforeseen  national  disaster  sweeping  all 
before  it  and  leaving  only  poverty  and  ruin,  the  untouched 
wealth  of  the  mines  lying  beneath  the  earth  on  which  battles 
had  been  fought — all  the  possibilities  the  future  might  hold 
for  one  penniless  boy — these  things  were  full  of  suggestion 
and  excitement. 

"  You  would  be  rich,"  said  Sheba. 

"  So  would  Uncle  Tom,"  Rupert  answered,  smiling;  "  and 
you,  too." 

Tom  had  been  listening  with  a  reflective  look  on  his  fa?e. 
He  tilted  his  chair  back  and  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair. 

"  At  all  events,  we  couldn't  lose  money  if  we  didn't  gain 
any,"  he  said.  "  That's  where  we're  safe.  When  a  man's 
got  to  the  place  where  he  hasn't  anything  to  lose,  he  can 
afford  to  take  chances.  Perhaps  it's  worth  thinking  over. 
Let's  go  to  bed,  children.  It's  midnight." 

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When  they  said  good-night  to  each  other,  the  two  young 
hands  clung  together  kindly  and  Sheba  looked  up  with 
sympathetic  eyes. 

"  Would  you  like  to  he  very  rich?  "  she  asked. 

"  To-night  I  am  rich/'  he  answered.  "  That  is  because 
you  and  Uncle  Tom  have  made  me  feel  as  if  I  belonged 
to  someone.  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  seemed  to  belong 
to  anyone." 

"  But  now  you  belong  to  us,"  said  Sheba. 

He  stood  silently  looking  down  at  her  a  moment. 

"  Your  eyes  look  just  as  they  did  when  you  were  a  little 
child,"  he  said.  He  lifted  her  hand  and  pressed  his  warm 
young  lips  to  it. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HE  awoke  the  next  morning  with  a  glow  in  his  heart 
which  should  not  be  new  to  youth,  but  was  new  to  him. 
He  remembered  feeling  something  rather  like  it  years  before 
when  he  had  been  a  little  boy  and  had  wakened  on  the 
morning  of  his  birthday  and  found  his  mother  kissing  him 
and  his  bed  strewn  with  gifts. 

He  went  downstairs  and,  strolling  on  to  the  porch,  saw 
Sheba  in  the  garden.  As  he  went  to  join  her,  he  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  familiar  paths  and  growths. 

"  Why,"  he  exclaimed,  stopping  before  her,  "  it  is  the 
old  garden! " 

"  Yes,"  Sheba  answered;  "  Uncle  Tom  made  it  like  this 
because  he  loved  the  other  one.  You  and  I  have  played  in 
the  same  garden.  Good-morning,"  laughing. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  good-morning.  I 
— somehow  I  have  been  thinking  that  when  I  woke  I  felt 
as  I  used  to  do  when  I  was  a  child  and  woke  on  my  birthday." 

That  morning  she  showed  him  her  domain.  To  the  im- 
aginative boy  she  led  with  her,  she  seemed  like  a  strange 
young  princess,  to  whom  all  the  land  belonged.  She  loved 
it  so  and  knew  so  well  all  it  yielded.  She  showed  him  the 
cool  woods  where  she  always  found  the  first  spring  flowers, 
the  chestnut  and  walnut  trees  where  she  and  Tom  gathered 
their  winter  supply  of  nuts,  the  places  where  the  wild  grapes 
grew  thickest,  and  those  where  the  ground  was  purple-car- 
peted with  violets. 

They  wandered  on  together  until  they  reached  a  holloa 

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in  the  road,  on  one  side -.of  which  a  pine  wood  sloped  up 
a  hillside,  looking  dark  and  cool. 

"  I  come  here  very  often,"  she  said,  quite  simply.  "  My 
mother  is  here." 

Then  he  saw  that  a  little  distance  ahove  the  road  a  deserted 
log  cabin  stood,  and  not  far  from  it  two  or  three  pine  trees 
had  been  cut  down  so  that  the  sun  could  shine  on  a  mound 
over  and  about  which  flowers  grew.  It  was  like  a  little  gar- 
den in  the  midst  of  the  silent  wildness. 

He  followed  her  to  the  pretty  spot,  and  she  knelt  down 
by  it  and  removed  a  leaf  or  a  dead  flower  here  and  there. 
The  little  mound  was  a  snowy  mass  of  white  blossoms  stand- 
ing thick  together,  and  for  a  yard  or  so  about  the  earth  was 
starred  with  the  same  flowers.  • 

"  You  see/'  she  said,  "  Uncle  Tom  and  I  plant  new  flowers 
for  every  month.  Everything  is  always  white.  Sometimes 
it  is  all  lilies  of  the  valley  or  white  hyacinths,  and  then  it 
is  white  roses,  and  in  the  autumn  white  chrysanthemums. 
Uncle  Tom  thought  of  it  when  I  was  a  little  child,  and  we 
have  done  it  together  ever  since.  We  think  she  knows." 

She  stopped,  and,  still  kneeling,  looked  at  him  as  if  sud- 
denly remembering  something. 

"  You  have  not  heard,"  she  said;  "  she  died  when  I  was 
born,  and  we  do  not  even  know  her  name." 

"  Not  her  name! "  Eupert  said;  but  the  truth  was  that 
lie  had  heard  more  of  the  story  than  she  had. 

"  My  father  was  so  stunned  with  grief,  that  Uncle  Tom 
.said  he  seemed  to  think  of  nothing  but  that  he  could  not 
bear  to  stay.  He  went  away  the  very  night  they  laid  her 
iiere.  I  suppose,"  she  said  slowly,  and  looking  at  the  mass 
of  white  narcissus  instead  of  at  him,  "  I  suppose  when  people 

love  each  other,  and  one  dies,  the  other  cannot — cannot " 

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Rupert  saw  that  she  was  unconsciously  trying  to  explain 
something  to  herself,  and  he  interposed  between  her  and 
her  thoughts  with  a  hurried  effort. 

"  Yes,  yes/'  he  said;  "  it  must  be  so.  "When  they  love  each 
other  and  one  is  taken,  how  can  the  other  hear  it?  " 

Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  flowers  to  his  again, 
and  they  looked  very  large  and  bright. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  in  an  unsteady  little  voice,  "  I  had 
only  been  alive  a  few  hours  when  he  went  away." 

Suddenly  the  brightness  in  her  eyes  welled  up  and  fell  in 
two  large  crystal  drops,  though  a  smile  quivered  on  her  lips. 

"  Don't  tell  Uncle  Tom/'  she  said;  "  I  never  let  him  know 
that  it — it  hurts  my  feelings  when  I  think  I  had  only  been 
alive  such  a  few  hours — and  there  was  nobody  to  care.  I 
must  have  been  so  little.  If — if  there  had  been  no  Uncle 
Tom- 
He  knelt  down  by  her  side  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  But  there  was,"  he  said;  "  there  was!  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  her  sweet  face  trembling  with  emo- 
tion; "  and,  oh!  I  love  him  so!  I  love  him  so!  " 

She  put  her  free  hand  on  the  earth  among  the  white 
flowers  on  the  mound. 

"  And  I  love  her,  too,"  she  said;  "  somehow  I  know  she 
would  not  have  forgotten  me." 

"  No,  no,  she  would  not!  "  Rupert  cried;  and  they  knelt 
together,  hand  in  hand,  looking  into  each  other's  eyes  as 
tenderly  as  children. 

"  I  have  been  lonelier  than  you,"  he  said;  "  I  have  had 
nobody." 

"  Your  mother  died,  too,  when  you  were  very  young?  " 

"Yes,  Sheba,"  hesitating  a  moment.  "I  will  tell  you 
something." 

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"Yes?" 

"  Uncle  Tom  loved  her.  He  left  his  home  partly  because 
he  could  not  stay  and  see  her  marry  a  man  who — did  not 
deserve  her." 

"  Did  she  marry  someone  like  that?  "  she  asked. 

His  forehead  flushed. 

"  She  married  my  father/'  he  said,  "  and  he  was  a  drunken 
maniac  and  hroke  her  heart.  I  saw  it  hreak.  When  I  first 
remember  her,  she  was  a  lovely  young  girl  with  eyes  like 
a  gazelle's — and  she  cried  all  their  beauty  away,  and  grew 
tired  and  old  and  haggard  before  I  was  twelve.  He  is  dead, 
but  I  hate  him!  " 

"  Oh!  "  she  said;   "  you  have  been  lonely!  " 

"  I  have  been  something  worse  than  that!  "  he  answered, 
and  the  gloom  came  back  to  his  face.  "  I  have  been  afraid." 

"  Afraid!  "  said  Sheba.    "  Of  what?  " 

"  That  I  might  end  like  him.  How  do  I  know?  It  is  in 
my  blood." 

"Oh,  no!"  she  cried. 

"  We  have  nearly  all  been  like  that,"  he  said.  "  He  was 
the  maddest  of  them  all,  but  he  was  only  like  many  of  the 
others.  We  grow  tall,  we  De  Willoughbys,  we  have  black 
eyes,  we  drink  and  we  make  ourselves  insane  with  morphine. 
It's  a  ghastly  thing  to  think  of,"  he  shuddered.  "  When 
I  am  lonely,  I  think  of  it  night  and  day." 

"  You  must  not,"  she  said.  "  I — I  will  help  you  to  for- 
get it." 

"  I  have  often  wondered  if  there  was  anyone  who  could," 
he  answered.  "  I  think  perhaps  you  might." 

When  they  returned  to  the  Cross-roads  there  were  several 
customers  loitering  on  the  post-office  porch,  awaiting  their 
arrival,  and  endeavouring  to  wear  an  air  of  concealing  no 

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object  whatever.  The  uneventful  lives  they  led  year  after 
year  made  men  and  women  alike  avid  for  anything  of  the 
nature  of  news  or  incident.  In  some  mysterious  way  the  air 
itself  seemed  to  communicate  to  them  anything  of  interest 
which  might  be  impending.  Big  Tom  had  not  felt  inclined 
to  be  diffuse  on  the  subject  of  the  arrival  of  his  nephew,  but 
each  customer  who  brought  in  a  pail  of  butter  or  eggs,  a 
roll  of  jeans  or  a  pair  of  chickens,  seemed  to  become  en- 
lightened at  once  as  to  the  position  of  affairs. 

"Ye  see/'  Tom  heard  Doty  confiding  to  a  friend  as 
they  sat  together  outside  a  window  of  the  store;  "  ye  see, 
it's  this  way — the  D'Willerbys  was  born  'ristycrats.  I  dunno 
as  ye'd  think  it  to  look  at  Tom.  Thar's  a  heap  to  Tom, 
but  he  ain't  my  idee  of  a  'ristycrat.  My  idee  is  thet  mebbe 
he  let  out  from  D'lisleville  kase  he  warn't  'ristycratic  enough 
fur  'em.  Thar  wus  a  heap  of  property  in  the  family,  'pears 
like.  An'  now  the  hull  lot  of  'em's  dead  'cept  this  yere  boy 
that  come  last  night.  Stamps  hes  seen  him  in  D'lisleville, 
an'  he  says  he's  a-stavin'  lookin'  young  feller,  an'  thet  thar's 
somethin'  about  a  claim  on  the  Guv'ment  thet  ef  Tom  an' 
him  don't  foller  up,  they're  blamed  fools.  Now  Tom,  he 
ain't  no  blamed  fool.  Fur  not  bein'  a  blamed  fool,  I'll  back 
Tom  agin  any  man  in  Hamlin." 

So,  when  the  two  young  figures  were  seen  sauntering  along 
the  road  towards  the  store,  there  were  lookers-on  enough  to 
regard  them  with  interest. 

"  Now  lie's  my  idee  of  a  'ristycrat,"  remarked  Mr.  Doty, 
with  the  manner  of  a  connoisseur.  "  Kinder  tall  an'  slim, 
an'  high-sperrity  lookin';  Sheby's  a  gal,  but  she's  got  it  too 
— thet  thar  sorter  racehorse  look.  Now,  hain't  she  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  see  the  store  and  the  people  in  it,"  Sheba 
was  saying.  "  It's  my  home,  you  know.  Uncle  Tom  took 

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me  there  the  day  after  I  was  born.  I  used  to  play  on  the 
floor  behind  the  counter  and  near  the  stove,  and  all  those 
men  are  my  friends." 

Eupert  had  never  before  liked  anything  so  much  as  he 
liked  the  simple  lovingness  of  this  life  of  hers.  As  she  knew 
the  mountains,  the  flowers,  and  the  trees,  she  knew  and 
seemed  known  by  the  very  cows  and  horses  and  people  she 
saw. 

"  That's  John  Hutton's  old  gray  horse,"  she  had  said 
as  she  caught  sight  of  one  rider  in  the  distance.  "  That  is 
Billy  Neil's  yoke  of  oxen,"  at  another  time.  "  Good-morn- 
ing, Mrs.  Stebbins,"  she  called  out,  with  the  prettiest  pos- 
sible cheer,  to  a  woman  in  an  orange  cotton  skirt  as  she 
passed  on  the  road.  "  It  seems  to  me  sometimes,"  she  said 
to  Rupert,  "  as  if  I  belonged  to  a  family  that  was  scattered 
over  miles  and  lived  in  scores  of  houses.  They  all  used  to 
tell  Uncle  Tom  what  would  disagree  with  me  when  I  was 
cutting  my  teeth." 

They  mounted  the  steps  of  the  porch,  laughing  the  light, 
easy  laugh  of  youth,  and  the  loiterers  regarded  them  with 
undisguised  interest  and  admiration.  In  her  pink  cotton 
frock,  and  blooming  like  a  rose  in  the  shade  of  her  frilled 
pink  sunbonnet,  Sheba  was  fair  to  see.  Eupert  presented 
an  aspect  which  was  admirably  contrasting.  His  cool  pallor 
and  dense  darkness  of  eyes  and  hair  seemed  a  delightful 
background  to  her  young  tints  of  bloom. 

"  Thet  thar  white  linen  suit  o'  his'n,"  Mr.  Doty  said, 
"might  hev  been  put  on  a-purpose  to  kinder  set  off  her 
looks  as  well  as  his'n." 

It  was  to  Mr.  Doty  Sheba  went  first. 

"  Jake,"  she  said,  "  this  is  my  cousin  Mr.  Eupert  De  Wil- 
loughby from  Delisleville." 

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"Mighty  glad  to  be  made  'quainted,  sir/'  said  Jake. 
"  Tom's  mightily  sot  up  at  yer  comin'." 

They  all  crowded  about  him  and  went  through  the  same 
ceremony.  It  could  scarcely  be  called  a  ceremony,  it  was 
such  a  simple  and  actually  affectionate  performance.  It  was 
so  plain  that  his  young  good  looks  and  friendly  grace  of 
manner  reached  their  hearts  at  once,  and  that  they  were 
glad  that  he  had  come. 

"  They  are  glad  you  have  come/'  Sheba  said  afterwards. 
"  You  are  from  the  world  over  there,  you  know,"  waving 
her  hand  towards  the  blue  of  the  mountains.  "  We  are  all 
glad  when  we  see  anything  from  the  outside." 

"Would  you  like  to  go  there?"  Kupert  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  nod  of  her  head.  "  If 
Uncle  Tom  will  go — and  you." 

They  spent  almost  an  hour  in  the  store  holding  a  sort  of 
levee.  Every  new-comer  bade  the  young  fellow  welcome  and 
seemed  to  accept  him  as  a  sort  of  boon. 

"  He's  a  mighty  good-lookin'  young  feller,"  they  all  said, 
and  the  women  added:  "  Them  black  eyes  o'  his'n  an'  the 
way  his  hair  kinks  is  mighty  purty." 

"  Their  feelings  will  be  hurt  if  you  don't  stay  a  little," 
said  Sheba.  "  They  want  to  look  at  you.  You  don't  mind 
it,  do  you?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  laughing;  "  it  delights  me.  No  one 
ever  wanted  to  look  at  me  before.  But  I  should  hardly  think 
they  would  want  to  look  at  me  when  they  might  look  at 
you  instead." 

"  They  have  looked  at  me  for  eighteen  years,"  she  an- 
swered. "  They  looked  at  me  when  I  had  the  measles,  and 
saw  me  turn  purple  when  I  had  the  whooping-cough." 

As  they  were  going  away,  they  passed  a  little  man  who 

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had  just  arrived  and  was  hitching  to  the  horse-rail  a  raw- 
boned  "  clay-bank  "  mare.  He  looked  up  as  they  neared 
him  and  smiled  peacefully. 

"  Howdy  ?  "  he  said  to  Rupert.  "  Ye  hain't  seen  me  afore, 
but  I  seen  you  when  I  was  to  Delisleville.  It  wuz  me  as 
•told  yer  nigger  ye'd  be  a  fool  if  ye  didn't  get  Tom  ter  help 
yer  to  look  up  thet  thar  claim.  Ye  showed  horse  sense  by 
comin'.  Wish  ye  luck." 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  said  Sheba,  as  they  sat  at  their  dinner  and 
Mornin  walked  backwards  and  forwards  from  the  kitchen 
stove  to  the  dining-room  with  chicken  fried  in  cream,  hot 
biscuits,  and  baked  yams,  "we  saw  Mr.  Stamps  and  he 
wished  us  luck." 

"  He  has  a  claim  himself,  hasn't  he  ?  "  said  Rupert.  "  He 
told  Matt  it  was  for  a  yoke  of  oxen." 

Tom  broke  into  a  melodious  roar  of  laughter. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  we  can  do  as  well  by  ours  as  Stamps 
will  do  by  his,  we  shall  be  in  luck.  That  yoke  of  oxen  has 
grown  from  a  small  beginning.  If  it  thrives  as  it  goes  on, 
the  Government's  in  for  a  big  thing." 

"  It  has  grown  from  a  calf,"  said  Sheba,  "  and  it  wasn't 
six  weeks  old." 

"  A  Government  mule  kicked  it  and  broke  its  leg,"  said 
Tom.  "  Stamps  made  veal  of  it,  and  in  two  months  it  was 
'Thet  heifer  o'  mine' — in  six  months  it  was  a  young 
steer " 

"  Now  it's  a  yoke  of  oxen,"  said  Rupert;  "  and  they  were 
the  pride  of  the  county." 

"Lord!  Lord!"  said  Tom,  "the  United  States  has  got 
something  to  engineer." 


268 


CHAPTEE  XXIII 

IT  was  doubtless  Stamps  who  explained  the  value  of  the 
De  Willoughby  claim  to  the  Cross-roads.  Excited  interest 
in  it  mounted  to  fever  heat  in  a  few  days.  The  hitching  rail 
was  put  to  such  active  use  that  the  horses  shouldered  each 
other  and  occasionally  bit  and  kicked  and  enlivened  the  air 
with  squeals.  No  one  who  had  an  opportunity  neglected 
to  appear  at  the  post-office,  that  he  or  she  might  hear  the 
news.  Judge  De  Willoughby's  wealth  and  possessions  in- 
creased each  time  they  were  mentioned.  The  old  De  Wil- 
loughby place  became  a  sort  of  princely  domain,  the  good 
looks  of  the  Judge's  sons  and  daughters  and  the  splendour 
of  their  gifts  were  spoken  of  almost  with  bated  breath.  The 
coal  mines  became  gold  mines,  the  money  invested  in  them 
something  scarcely  to  be  calculated.  The  Government  at 
Washington,  it  was  even  inferred,  had  not  money  enough 
in  its  treasury  to  refund  what  had  been  lost  and  indemnify 
for  the  injury  done. 

"And  to  think  o'  Tom  settin'  gassin'  yere  with  us  fel- 
lers," they  said,  admiringly,  "  jest  same  es  if  he  warn't  noth- 
in'.  A-settin'  in  his  shirt  sleeves  an'  tradin'  fer  eggs  an' 
butter.  Why,  ef  he  puts  thet  thar  claim  through,  he  kin 
buy  up  Hamlin."  " 

"  I'd  like  ter  see  the  way  he'd  fix  up  Sheby,"  said  Mis' 
Doty.  "  He'd  hev  her  dressed  in  silks  an'  satins — an'  dia- 
mond earrings  soon  as  look." 

"  Ye'll  hev  to  go  ter  Washin'ton  City  sure  enough,  Tom/' 
was  the  remark  made  oftenest.  "  When  do  ye  'low  to  start?  * 

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But  Tom  was  not  as  intoxicated  by  the  prospect  as  the 
rest  of  them.  His  demeanour  was  thoughtful  and  unexhil- 
arated. 

"  Whar  do  ye  'low  to  build  yer  house  when  ye  come  into 
yer  money,  Tom?  "  he  was  asked,  gravely.  "  Shall  ye  hev 
a  cupoly?  Whar'll  ye  buy  yer  land?  " 

The  instinct  of  Hamlin  County  tended  towards  expressing 
any  sense  of  opulence  by  increasing  the  size  of  the  house  it 
lived  in,  or  by  building  a  new  one,  and  invariably  by  pur- 
chasing land.  Nobody  had  ever  become  rich  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, but  no  imagination  would  have  found  it  possible 
to  extend  its  efforts  beyond  a  certain  distance  from  the  Cross- 
roads. The  point  of  view  was  wholly  primitive  and  patri- 
archal. 

Big  Tom  was  conscious  that  he  had  become  primitive  and 
patriarchal  also,  though  the  truth  was  that  he  had  always 
been  primitive. 

As  he  sat  on  the  embowered  porch  of  his  house  in  the 
evening  and  thought  things  over,  while  the  two  young  voices 
murmured  near  him,  his  reflections  were  not  greatly  joyful. 
The  years  he  had  spent  closed  in  by  the  mountains  and  sur- 
rounded by  his  simple  neighbours  had  been  full  of  peace. 
Since  Sheba  had  belonged  to  him  they  had  even  held  more 
than  peace.  The  end  had  been  that  the  lonely  unhappiness 
of  his  youth  had  seemed  a  thing  so  far  away  that  it  was  rather 
like  a  dream.  Only  Delia  Vanuxem  was  not  quite  like  a 
dream.  Her  pitying  girlish  face  and  the  liquid  darkness 
of  her  uplifted  eyes  always  came  back  to  him  clearly  when 
he  called  them  up  in  thought.  He  called  them  up  often 
during  these  days  in  which  he  was  pondering  as  to  what 
it  was  best  to  decide  to  do. 

"  It's  the  boy  who  brings  her  back  so,"  he  told  himself, 
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"  Good  Lord,  how  near  she  seems!  The  grass  has  been  grow- 
ing over  her  for  many  a  year,  and  I'm  an  old  fellow,  but 
she  looks  just  as  she  did  then." 

The  world  beyond  the  mountains  did  not  allure  him.  It 
was  easier  to  sit  and  see  the  sun  rise  and  set  within  the 
purple  boundary  than  to  face  life  where  it  was  less  simple, 
and  perhaps  less  kindly.  It  was  from  a  much  less  advanced 
and  concentrated  civilisation  he  had  fled  in  his  youth,  and 
the  yeare  which  had  passed  had  not  made  him  more  fitted 
to  combat  with  what  was  more  complex. 

"  Trading  for  butter  and  eggs  over  the  counter  of  a  coun- 
try store,  and  discussing  Doty's  corn  crop  and  Hayworth's 
pigs  hasn't  done  anything  particular  towards  fitting  me  to 
shine  in  society,"  he  said.  "  It  suits  me  well  enough,  but 
it's  not  what's  wanted  at  a  ball  or  a  cabinet  minister's  re- 
ception." And  he  shook  his  head.  "  I'd  rather  stay  where 
I  am — a  darned  sight." 

But  the  murmuring  voices  went  on  near  him,  and  little 
bursts  of  laughter  rang  out,  or  two  figures  wandered  about 
the  garden,  and  his  thoughts  always  came  back  to  one  point 
— a  point  where  the  sun  seemed  to  shine  on  things  and 
surround  them  with  a  dazzling  radiance. 

"  Yes,  it's  all  very  well  for  me,"  he  concluded  more  than 
once.  "  It's  well  enough  for  me  to  sit  down  and  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  looking  at  the  mountains  and  watching  sum- 
mer change  into  winter;  but  they  are  only  beginning  it  all 
— just  beginning." 

So  one  night  he  left  his  chair  and  went  out  and  walked 
between  them  in  the  moonlight,  a  hand  resting  on  a  shoul- 
der of  each. 

"  See,"  he  said,  "  I  want  you  two  to  help  me  to  make  up 
my  mind." 

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In  Connection  with 

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"About  going  away?"  asked  Rupert,  looking  round  at 
liim  quickly. 

"  Yes.  Do  you  know  we  may  have  a  pretty  hard  time? 
We've  no  money.  We  should  have  to  live  scant  enough,  and, 
unless  we  had  luck,  we  might  come  back  here  worse  off  than 
we  left." 

"But  we  should  have  tried,  and  we  should  have  been 
on  the  other  side  of  the  mountains,"  said  Sheba. 

"  So  we  should,"  said  Tom,  reflectively.  "  And  there's  a 
good  deal  in  seeing  the  other  side  of  the  mountains  when 
people  are  young." 

Sheba  put  her  hand  on  his  and  looked  at  him  with  a  glow- 
ing face. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said,  "  oh,  let  us  go!  " 

"Uncle  Tom,"  said  Eupert,  "I  must  go! " 

The  line  showed  itself  between  his  black  brows  again, 
though  it  was  not  a  frown.  He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket 
and  held  it  out,  open,  with  a  solitary  twenty-dollar  bill  lying 
in  it. 

"  That's  all  I've  got,"  he  said,  "  and  that's  borrowed.  If 
the  claim  is  worth  nothing,  I  must  earn  enough  to  pay  it 
back.  All  right.  We'll  all  three  go,"  said  Tom. 

The  next  day  he  began  to  develop  the  plans  he  had  been 
allowing  to  form  vaguely  as  a  background  to  his  thoughts. 
They  were  not  easy  to  carry  out  in  the  existing  condition 
of  general  poverty.  But  at  Lucasville,  some  forty  miles  dis- 
tant, he  was  able  to  raise  a  mortgage  on  his  land. 

"If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,"  he  said  to  Sheba, 
"  after  we  have  seen  the  other  side  of  the  mountains,  do  you 
think  you  could  stand  it  to  come  back  and  live  with  me  in 
the  rooms  behind  the  store?  " 

Sheba  sat  down  upon  his  knee  and  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  ten  years  old. 

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"  I  could  live  with  you  anywhere,"  she  said.  "  The  only 
thing  I  couldn't  stand  would  be  to  have  to  live  away  from 
you." 

Tom  laughed  and  kissed  her.  He  laughed  that  he  might 
smother  a  sigh.  Eupert  was  standing  near  and  looking  at 
her  with  the  eyes  that  were  so  like  Delia  Vanuxem's. 


273 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

FOE  an  imaginative  or  an  untravelled  person  to  approach 
the  city  of  Washington  at  sunrise  on  a  radiant  morning,  is 
a  thing  far  from  unlikely  to  be  remembered,  since  a  white 
and  majestic  dome,  rising  about  a  white  structure  set  high 
and  supported  by  stately  colonnades,  the  whole  gleaming  fair 
against  a  background  of  blue  sky,  forms  a  picture  which  does 
not  easily  melt  away. 

Those  who  reared  this  great  temple  of  white  stone  and 
set  it  on  a  hilltop  to  rule  and  watch  over  the  land,  builded 
better  than  they  knew.  To  the  simple  and  ardent  idealist 
its  white  stateliness  must  always  suggest  something  symbolic, 
and,  after  all,  it  is  the  ardent  and  simple  idealist  whose 
dreams  and  symbols  paint  to  prosaic  human  minds  the  beau- 
tiful impossibilities  whose  unattainable  loveliness  so  allures 
as  to  force  even  the  unexalted  world  into  the  endeavour  to 
create  such  reproductions  of  their  forms  as  crude  living  will 
allow. 

Tom  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  car  window  and 
watched  the  great  dome  with  an  air  of  curious  reflection. 
Sheba  and  Rupert  leaned  forward  and  gazed  at  it  with  dream- 
ing eyes. 

"  It  looks  as  the  capitol  of  a  great  republic  ought  to  look," 
Eupert  said.    "  Spotless  and  majestic,  and  as  if  it  dominated 
all  it  looks  down  upon  with  pure  laws  and  dignity  and 
justice." 
*•     "  Just  so,"  said  Tom. 

In  the  various  crises  of  political  excitement  in  Hamlin 

274 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

County  he  had  taken  the  part  of  an  unbiassed  but  humor- 
ous observer,  and  in  that  character  had  gained  much  experi- 
ence of  a  primitive  kind.  What  he  had  been  led  chiefly  to 
remark  in  connection  with  the  "  great  republic  "  was  that 
the  majesty  and  spotlessness  of  its  intentions  were  not  in- 
variably realised  by  mere  human  units. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  he  took  down  his  valise  from  the 
rack,  "  we're  coming  in  here  pretty  well  fixed  for  leaving  the 
place  millionaires.  If  we  had  only  fifteen  cents  in  our 
pockets,  it  would  be  a  dead  sure  thing,  according  to  all  the 
biographers  /  ever  read.  The  only  thing  against  us  is  that 
we  have  a  little  more — but  it's  not  enough  to  spoil  our  luck, 
that  I'll  swear." 

He  was  not  without  reason  in  the  statement.  Few  voy- 
agers on  the  ocean  of  chance  could  have  dared  the  journey 
with  less  than  they  had  in  their  possession. 

"  What  we've  got  to  do,"  he  had  said  to  Eupert,  "  is  to 
take  care  of  Sheba.  We  two  can  rough  it." 

They  walked  through  the  awakening  city,  finding  it 
strange  and  bare  with  its  broad  avenues  and  streets  ill- 
paved,  bearing  traces  everywhere  of  the  tragedy  of  war 
through  which  it  had  passed.  The  public  buildings  alone 
had  dignity;  for  the  rest,  it  wore  a  singularly  provincial  and 
uncompleted  aspect;  its  plan  was  simple  and  splendid  in 
its  vistas  and  noble  spaces,  but  the  houses  were  irregular1 
and  without  beauty  of  form;  negro  shanties  huddled  against 
some  of  the  most  respectable,  and  there  were  few  whose 
windows  or  doors  did  not  announce  that  board  and  lodging 
might  be  obtained  within.  There  was  no  look  of  well-being 
or  wealth  anywhere;  the  few  equipages  in  the  streets  had 
seen  hard  service;  the  people  who  walked  were  either  plainly 
dressed  or  shabby  genteel;  about  the  doors  of  the  principal 

275 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

hotels  there  were  groups  of  men  who  wore,  most  of  them, 
dispirited  or  anxious  faces.  Ten  years  later  the  whole  aspect 
of  the  place  was  changing,  hut  at  this  time  it  was  passing 
through  a  period  of  natural  fatigue  and  poverty,  and  was 
not  an  inspiring  spectacle  to  penniless  new-comers. 

"It  reminds  me  a  little  of  Delisleville,  after  all,"  said 
Rupert. 

Beyond  the  more  frequented  quarters  of  the  town,  they 
found  hroad,  unkempt,  and  as  yet  unlevelled  avenues  and 
streets,  where  modest  houses  straggled,  perched  on  high 
hanks  with  an  air  of  having  found  themselves  there  quite 
by  accident.  The  banks  were  usually  grass-covered,  and 
the  white  picket  fences  enclosed  bits  of  ground  where  scant 
fruit-trees  and  disorderly  bushes  grew;  almost  every  house 
possessed  a  porch,  and  almost  every  porch  was  scrambled  over 
by  an  untidy  honeysuckle  or  climbing  rose  which  did  its  best 
to  clothe  with  some  grace  the  dilapidated  woodwork  and  the 
peeled  and  blistered  paint. 

Before  one  of  these  houses  Tom  stopped  to  look  at  a  lop- 
sided sign  in  the  little  garden,  which  announced  that  rooms 
were  to  be  rented  within. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  find  something  here,"  he  said,  "  that 
may  suit  the  first  ventures  of  millionaires.  It's  the  sort  of 
thing  that  will  appeal  to  the  newspaper  man  who  writes 
the  thing  up;  '  First  home  of  the  De  Willoughbys  when 
they  arrived  in  Washington  to  look  up  their  claim.'  It'll 
make  a  good  woodcut  to  contrast  with  ( The  great  De 
Willoughby  mansion  in  Fifth  Avenue.  Cost  five  hundred 
thousand!'" 

They  mounted  the  wooden  steps  built  into  the  bank 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  Rupert  and  Sheba  exchanged 
glances  with  a  little  thrill.  They  were  young  enough  to 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

feel  a  sort  of  excitement  even  in  taking  this  first  modest 
step. 

A  lady  with,  a  gentle,  sallow  face  and  a  faded  black  cotton 
gown,  opened  the  door.  Her  hair  hung  in  depressed  but 
genteel  ringlets  on  each  side  of  her  countenance;  at  the 
back  it  formed  a  scant  coil  upheld  by  a  comb.  Tom  thought 
he  observed  a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  eye  when  she  saw  them. 
She  spoke  with  the  accent  of  Virginia. 

"  Yes,  suh,  we  have  rooms  disengaged.  Won't  you  come 
in  ?  "  she  said. 

She  led  them  into  a  neat  but  rather  painful  little  parlour. 
The  walls  were  decorated  with  photographs  of  deceased  rela- 
tives in  oval  frames,  and  encased  in  glass  there  was  a  floral 
wreath  made  of  hair  of  different  shades  and  one  of  white, 
waxen-looking  flowers,  with  a  vaguely  mortuary  suggestion 
in  their  arrangement.  There  was  a  basket  of  wax  fruit  under 
a  shade  on  the  centre  table,  a  silver  ice-water  pitcher  on  a 
salver,  and  two  photograph  albums  whose  binding  had  be- 
come loosened  by  much  Handling.  There  was  also  a  book 
with  a  red  and  gold  cover,  bearing  in  ornate  letters  the  title 
"  Life  of  General  Robert  Lee." 

"  The  rooms  are  not  lawge,"  the  lady  said,  "  but  they  are 
furnished  with  the  things  I  brought  from  my  fawther's  house 
in  Virginia.  My  fawther  was  Judge  Burf ord,  of  the  Burford 
family  of  England.  There's  a  Lord  Burford  in  England, 
we  always  heard.  It  is  a  very  old  family." 

She  looked  as  if  she  found  a  vague  comfort  in  the  state- 
ment, and  Tom  did  not  begrudge  it  to  her.  She  looked  very 
worn  and  anxious,  and  he  felt  it  almost  possible  that  during 
the  last  few  months  she  might  not  always  have  had  quite 
enough  to  eat. 

"  I  never  thawt  in  the  days  when  I  was  Judge  Burford's 

277 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

dawtah  of  Burfordsville,"  she  explained,  "that  I  should 
come  to  Washington  to'  take  boarders.  There  was  a  time 
when  it  was  thawt  in  Virginia  that  Judge  Burford  might 
reach  the  White  House  if  he  would  allow  himself  to  be  nomi- 
nated. It's  a  great  change  of  circumstances.  Did  you  want 
board  with  the  rooms?  " 

"  Well "  began  Tom. 

She  interrupted  him  in  some  little  hurry. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  convenient  for  me  to  board 
anyone,"  she  said;  "  I've  not  been  accustomed  to  providing 
for  boarders,  and  I'm  not  conveniently  situated.  If — if  you 
preferred  to  economize " 

"  We  do,"  said  Tom.  "  We  have  come  to  look  up  a  claim, 
and  people  on  that  business  are  pretty  safe  to  have  to  econo- 
mize, I've  been  told! " 

"  Ah,  a  claim! "  she  ejaculated,  with  combined  interest 
and  reverence.  "  Indeed,  you  are  quite  right  about  its  being 
necessary  to  economize.  Might  I  enqu'ah  if  it  is  a  large 
one?" 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  Tom  answered;  "  and  it's  not  likely 
to  be  put  through  in  a  month,  and  we  have  not  money 
enough  to  keep  us  in  luxury  for  much  more.  Probably  we 
shall  be  able  to  make  it  last  longer  if  we  take  rooms  and  buy 
our  own  food." 

"  I'm  sure  you  would,  suh,"  she  answered,  with  a  little 
eager  flush  on  her  cheek.  "  When  people  provide  for  them- 
selves, they  can  sometimes  do  without — things."  She  added 
the  last  word  hurriedly  and  gave  a  little  cough  which  sounded 
nervous. 

It  was  finally  agreed  that  they  should  take  three  little 
rooms  she  showed  them,  in  one  of  which  there  was  a  tiny 
stove,  upon  which  they  could  prepare  such  simple  food  as 

278 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

they  could  provide  themselves  with.  The  arrangement  was 
not  a  luxurious  one,  but  it  proved  to  be  peculiarly  suitable 
to  the  owners  of  the  great  De  Willoughby  claim. 

As  they  had  not  broken  fast,  Tom  went  out  to  explore 
the  neighbourhood  in  search  of  food.  He  thought  he  re- 
membered having  seen  in  a  side  street  a  little  store.  When 
he  returned,  after  some  wanderings,  a  wood  fire  was  crack- 
ling in  the  stove  and  Sheba  had  taken  off  her  hat  and  put 
on  a  white  apron. 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Tom. 

"  I  borrowed  it  from  Miss  Burford,"  she  said.  "  I  went 
down  to  see  her.  She  let  us  have  the  wood,  too.  Eupert 
made  the  fire." 

She  took  the  paper  bags  from  Tom's  hands  and  stood  on 
tiptoe  to  kiss  him,  smiling  sweetly  at  his  rather  troubled 
face. 

"  All  my  life  you  have  been  doing  things  for  me.  Now 
it  is  my  turn,"  she  said.  "  I  have  watched  Mornin  ever  since 
I  was  born.  I  am  going  to  be  your  servant." 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  they  had  taken  possession 
of  their  quarters,  they  were  sitting  at  a  little  table  before 
an  open  window,  making  a  breakfast  of  coffee  and  eggs. 
Sheba  was  presiding,  and  both  men  were  looking  at  her 
flushed  cheeks  adoringly. 

"  Is  the  coffee  good,  Uncle  Tom?  "  she  said.  "  Just  tell 
me  it  is  good." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom,  "  for  the  first  effort  of  a  millionairess, 
I  should  say  it  was." 


279 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE  year  before  this  Judge  Rutherford  had  been  sent 
to  Congress  by  the  Republican  Party  of  Hamlin  County. 
His  election  had  been  a  wildly  exciting  and  triumphant  one. 
Such  fiery  eloquence  as  his  supporters  displayed  had  rarely, 
if  ever,  been  poured  forth  before.  It  was  proved  by  each 
orator  that  the  return  of  the  Democratic  candidate  would 
plunge  the  whole  country  into  the  renewal  of  bloodshed  and 
war.  This  catastrophe  having  been  avoided  by  the  Judge's 
election,  the  nation — as  represented  by  Hamlin  County — 
had  settled  down  with  prospects  of  peace,  prosperity,  and 
the  righting  of  all  old  grievances.  The  Judge  bought  a  new 
and  shining  valise,  a  new  and  shining  suit  of  broadcloth,, 
and  a  silk  hat  equally  shining  and  new,  and  went  triumph- 
antly to  Washington,  the  sole  drawback  to  his  exultation 
being  that  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Jenny  behind  him  with 
the  piano,  the  parlour  furniture,  and  the  children. 

"  But  he'll  hev  ye  thar  in  the  White  House,  ef  ye  give 
him  time,"  said  an  ardent  constituent  who  called  to  con- 
gratulate. 

There  seemed  no  end  to  a  political  career  begun  under 
such  auspices  but  the  executive  mansion  itself.  The  confi- 
dence of  the  rural  communities  in  their  representatives  was 
great  and  respectful.  It  was  believed  that  upon  their  arrival 
at  the  capital,  business  in  both  Houses  was  temporarily  post- 
poned until  it  had  been  supported  by  their  expression  of 

280 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

opinion  and  approval.  It  was  believed  also  that  the  luxury 
and  splendour  of  a  Congressman's  life  was  such  as  ancient 
Borne  itself  might  have  paled  before  and  envied. 

"  A  man  in  Washin'ton  city  with  a  Congristman's  wages 
has  got  to  be  a  purty  level-headed  feller  not  to  get  into 
high-falutin'  ways  of  livin'  an'  throwin'  money  about. 
He's  got  to  keep  in  his  mind  that  this  yere's  a  republic 
an'  not  a  'ristycratic,  despotic  monarchy." 

This  was  a  sentiment  often  expressed,  and  Tom  De  Wil- 
loughby himself  had  had  vaguely  respectful  views  of  the  cir- 
cumstances and  possible  surroundings  of  a  representative  of 
his  country. 

But  when  he  made  his  first  visit  to  Judge  Rutherford, 
he  did  not  find  him  installed  in  a  palatial  hotel  and  sur- 
rounded by  pampered  menials.  He  was  sitting  in  a  back 
room  in  a  boarding-house — a  room  which  contained  a  fold- 
ing bedstead  and  a  stove.  He  sat  in  a  chair  which  was  tilted 
on  its  hind  legs,  and  his  feet  rested  on  the  stove's  ornamental 
iron  top.  He  had  just  finished  reading  a  newspaper  which 
lay  on  the  floor  beside  him,  and  his  hands  were  thrust  into 
his  pockets.  He  looked  somewhat  depressed  in  spirits. 

When  Tom  was  ushered  into  the  room,  the  Judge  looked 
round  at  him,  uttered  a  shout  of  joy,  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Tom,"  he  cried  out,  falling  upon  him  and  shaking  his 
hand  rather  as  if  he  would  not  object  to  shaking  it  off  and 
retaining  it  as  an  agreeable  object  forever.  "Tom!  Old 
Tom!  Jiipiter,  Tom!  I  don't  know  how  you  got  here  or 
where  you  came  from,  but — Jupiter!  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

He  went  on  shaking  his  hand  as  he  dragged  him  across 
the  room  and  pushed  him  into  a  dingy  armchair  by  the 
window;  and  when  he  had  got  him  there,  he  stood  over  him, 
grasping  his  shoulder,  shaking  his  hand  still.  Tom  saw 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

that  his  chin  was  actually  twitching  in  a  curious  way  which 
made  his  goatee  move  unsteadily. 

"  The  legislation  of  your  country  hasn't  made  you  forget 
home  folks,  has  it?"  said  Tom. 

"  Forget  'em! "  exclaimed  the  Judge,  throwing  himself 
into  a  seat  opposite  and  leaning  forward  excitedly  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees.  "  I  never  remembered  anything  in  my 
life  as  I  reih  ember  them.  They're  never  out  of  my  mind, 
night  or  day.  I've  got  into  a  way  of  dreaming  I'm  back 
to  Barnesville,  talking  to  the  boys  at  the  post-office,  or 
listening  to  Jenny  playing  '  Home,  Sweet  Home '  or  '  The 
Maiden's  Prayer/  I  was  a  bit  down  yesterday  and  couldn't 
eat,  and  in  the  night  there  I  was  in  the  little  dining-room, 
putting  away  fried  chicken  and  hot  biscuits  as  fast  as  the 
nigger  girl  could  bring  the  dishes  on  the  table.  Good 
Lord!  how  good  they  were!  There's  nothing  like  them 
in  Washington  city,"  he  added,  and  he  heaved  a  big  sigh. 

"Why,  man,"  said  Tom,  "you're  home-sick!" 

The  Judge  heaved  another  sigh,  thrusting  his  hands 
deeper  into  his  pockets  and  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  Yes,  by  Jingo!  "  he  said;   "  that's  what  I  am." 

He  withdrew  his  gaze  from  the  world  outside  the  window 
and  returned  to  Tom. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  I've  lived  different.  When  a  man 
has  been  born  and  brought  up  among  the  mountains  and 
lived  a  country  life  among  folks  that  are  all  neighbours  and 
have  neighbourly  ways,  city  life  strikes  him  hard.  Politics 
look  different  here;  they  are  different.  They're  not  of  the 
neighbourly  kind.  Politicians  ain't  joking  each  other  and 
having  a  good  time.  They  don't  know  anything  about  the 
other  man,  and  they  don't  care  a  damn.  What's  Hamlm 
County  to  them?  Why,  they  don't  know  anything  about 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Hamlin  County,  and,  as  far  as  I've  got,  they  don't  want 
to.  They've  got  their  own  precincts  to  attend  to,  and  they're 
going  to  do  it.  When  a  new  man  comes  in,  if  he  ain't  a 
pretty  big  fellow  that  knows  how  to  engineer  things  and 
say  things  to  make  them  listen  to  him,  he's  only  another 
greenhorn.  Now,  I'm  not  a  big  fellow,  Tom;  I've  found 
that  out!  and  the  first  two  months  after  I  came,  blamed 
if  I  wasn't  so  home-sick  and  discouraged  that  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  seeming  to  go  back  on  the  boys,  durned  if  I  don't 
believe  I  should  have  gone  home." 

Big  Tom  sat  and  regarded  his  honest  face  thoughtfully. 

"  Perhaps  you're  a  bigger  man  than  you  know,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  you'll  find  that  out  in  time,  and  perhaps  other 
people  will." 

The  Judge  shook  his  head. 

"  I've  not  got  education  enough,"  he  said.  "  And  I'm 
not  an  orator.  All  there  is  to  me  is  that  I'm  not  going* 
back  on  the  boys  and  Hamlin.  I  came  here  to  do  the  square 
thing  by  them  and  the  United  States,  and  blamed  if  I  ain't 
going  to  do  it  as  well  as  I  know  how." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  Big  Tom,  "  that's  pretty  good 
politics  to  start  with.  If  every  man  that  came  here  came 
to  stand  by  his  party — and  the  United  States — and  do  the 
square  thing  by  them,  the  republic  would  be  pretty  safe, 
if  they  couldn't  do  another  durned  thing." 

The  Judge  rubbed  his  already  rather  rough  head  and 
seemed  to  cheer  up  a  little. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  he  said. 

Big  Tom  stood  up  and  gave  him  a  slap  on  his  shoulder, 

"  Think  so  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  in  his  great,  cheerful  voice. 
I'm  a  greenhorn  myself,  but,  good  Lord!  I  know  it.  Mak- 
ing laws  for  a  few  million  people  is  a  pretty  big  scheme,  and 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

it's  the  fellows  who  intend  to  do  the  square  thing  who  are 
going  to  put  it  through.  This  isn't  ancient  Greece,  or 
Sparta,  but  it's  my  impression  that  the  men  who  planned 
and  wrote  the  Constitution,  and  did  the  thinking  and  orat- 
ing in  those  days,  had  a  sort  of  idea  of  building  up  a  thing 
just  as  ornamental  and  good  to  write  history  about  as  either 
one;  and,  what's  more,  they  counted  on  just  such  fellows 
as  you  to  go  on  carrying  the  stones  and  laying  them  plumb, 
long  after  they  were  gone." 

"  Jupiter,  Tom!  "  the  Judge  said,  with  something  actually 
like  elation  in  his  voice,  "  it's  good  to  hear  you.  It  brings 
old  Hamlin  back  and  gaves  a  man  sand.  You're  an  orator, 
yourself." 

"  Am  I  ?  "  said  Tom.  "  No  one  ever  called  my  attention 
to  it  before.  If  it's  true,  perhaps  it'll  come  in  useful." 

"  Now,  just  think  of  me  sitting  here  gassing,"  exclaimed 
the  Judge,  "  and  never  asking  what  you  are  here  for.  What's 
jour  errand,  Tom?  " 

"Perhaps  I'm  here  to  defraud  the  Government,"  Tom 
-answered,  sitting  down  again;  "  or  perhaps  I've  got  a  fair 
•claim  against  it.  That's  what  I've  come  to  Washington  to 
find  out — with  the  other  claimant." 

"A  claim!"  cried  the  Judge.  "And  you've  left  the 
€ross-roads — and  Sheba?" 

"  Sheba  and  the  other  claimant  are  in  some  little  rooms 
we've  taken  out  near  Dupont  Circle.  The  other  claimant  is 
the  only  De  Willoughby  left  beside  myself,  and  he  is  a 
youngster  of  twenty-three.  He's  my  brother  De  Courcy's 
son." 

The  Judge  glowed  with  interest.  He  heard  the  whole 
story,  and  his  excitement  grew  as  he  listened.  The  elements 
of  the  picturesque  in  the  situation  appealed  to  him  greatly. 

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The  curiously  composite  mind  of  the  American  contains 
a  strong  element  of  the  romantic.  In  its  most  mercantile 
forms  it  is  attracted  by  the  dramatic;  when  it  hails  from 
the  wilds,  it  is  drawn  by  it  as  a  child  is  drawn  by  colour 
and  light. 

"It's  a  big  thing,"  the  Judge  ejaculated  at  intervals. 
"  When  I  see  you  sitting  there,  Tom,  just  as  you  used  to 
sit  in  your  chair  on  the  store-porch,  it  seems  as  if  it  could 
hardly  be  you  that's  talking.  Why,  man,  it'll  mean  a 
million!" 

"  If  I  get  money  enough  to  set  the  mines  at  work,"  said. 
Tom,  "  it  may  mean  more  millions  than  one." 

The  dingy  square  room,  with  its  worn  carpet,  its  turned- 
up  bedstead,  shabby  chairs,  and  iron  stove,  temporarily  as- 
sumed a  new  aspect.  That  its  walls  should  contain  this  fairy 
tale  of  possible  wealth  and  power  and  magnificence  made 
it  seem  quite  soberly  respectable,  and  that  Big  Tom,  sitting; 
in  the  second-hand  looking  armchair,  which  creaked  beneath 
his  weight,  should,  in  matter-of-fact  tones,  be  relating  such 
a  story,  made  Judge  Rutherford  regard  him  with  a  kind  of 
reverent  trouble. 

"  Sheba,  now,"  he  said,  "  Sheba  may  be  one  of  the  big- 
gest heiresses  in  the  States.  Lord!  what  luck  it  was  for 
her  that  fellow  left  her  behind! " 

"  It  was  luck  for  me,"  said  Tom.  And  a  faint,  contem- 
plative grin  showed  itself  on  his  countenance.  He  was 
thinking,  as  he  often  did,  of  the  afternoon  when  he  returned 
from  Blair's  Hollow  and  opened  the  door  of  the  room  behind 
the  store  to  find  the  wooden  cradle  stranded  like  a  small 
ark  in  the  corner. 


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CHAPTER   XXVI 

NATURALLY  Judge  Rutherford  gravitated  towards  the 
little  house  near  Dupont  Circle.  The  first  night  he  mounted 
the  stairs  and  found  himself  in  the  small  room  confronting 
the  primitive  supper  he  had  been  invited  to  share  with  big 
Tom  .and  his  family,  his  honest  countenance  assumed  a 
cheerfulness  long  a  stranger  to  it. 

The  room  looked  such  a  simple,  homely  place,  with  its 
Virginia  made  carpet,  its  neat,  scant  furnishing,  and  its 
table  set  with  the  plain  little  meal.  The  Judge's  homesick 
heart  expanded  within  him. 

He  shook  hands  with  Tom  with  fervour.  Rupert  he 
greeted  with  friendly  affection.  Sheba — on  her  entering 
the  room  with  a  plate  of  hot  biscuits  which  she  had  been 
baking  in  Miss  Burford's  stove — he  almost  kissed. 

"  Now  this  is  something  like/7  he  said.    "  I  didn't  know 

there  was  anything  so  like  Barnesville  in  all  Washington 

city.    And  there  wasn't  till  you  people  brought  it.    I  don't 

t  know  what  it  is,  but,  by  thunder,  it  does  a  man's  heart  good." 

He  sat  down  with  the  unconventional  air  of  ease  he  wore 
in  Barnesville  when  he  established  himself  in  one  of  Jenny's 
parlour  chairs  for  the  evening. 

"  Lord,  Lord!  "  he  said;  "  you're  home  folks,  and  you've 
got  home  ways,  that's  what  it  is.  A  month  in  one  of  these 
fashionable  hotels  would  just  about  kill  me.  Having  to 
order  things  written  out  on  a  card  and  eat  'em  with  a  hun- 
dred folks  looking  on — there's  no  comfort  in  it.  Give  me 

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a  place  where  you  can  all  sit  up  together  round  the  table 
and  smell  the  good  hot  coffee  and  biscuit  cooking  and  the 
ham  and  chicken  being  fried  in  the  kitchen." 

Sheba  had  cooked  the  supper  in  Miss  Burford's  kitchen. 
Her  hot  biscuits  and  coffee  were  made  after  Mornin's  most 
respected  recipes,  and  her  housewifely  air  was  tenderly 
anxious. 

"If  it  is  not  very  good,  Judge  Kutherford,"  she  said, 
standing  shyly  at  the  head  of  the  table  before  she  took 
her  place,  "  it  is  because  I  am  only  learning." 

"  You  have  learned,  Sheba,"  said  the  Judge,  looking  at 
the  plate  of  light  golden  brown  and  cream  white  biscuit 
with  the  sensitive  eye  of  a  connoisseur.  "  That  plate  of 
biscuit  is  Barnesville  and  Sophrony  all  over." 

Sheba  blushed  with  joy. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Tom,"  she  said;  "do  you  think  it  is?  I 
should  so  like  to  remind  him  of  Barnesville." 

"  Good  Lord! "  said  the  Judge.  "Fact  is,  you've  made 
me  feel  already  as  if  Tom  Scott  might  break  out  yelling 
in  the  back  yard  any  minute." 

After  the  supper  was  over  and  the  table  clear  the  party 
of  four  sat  down  to  talk  business  and  make  plans.  The 
entire  inexperience  of  the  claimants  was  an  obstacle  in  their 
path,  but  Judge  Rutherford,  though  not  greatly  wiser  than 
themselves,  had  means  of  gaining  information  which  would 
be  of  value.  As  he  looked  over  the  papers  and  learned  the 
details  of  the  story,  the  good  fellow's  interest  mounted  to 
excitement.  He  rubbed  his  head  and  grew  flushed  and 
bright  of  eye. 

"  By  Jupiter,  Tom!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  believe  I  can  be 
»f  some  use  to  you — I  swear  I  believe  I  can.  I  haven't  had 
much  experience,  but  I've  seen  something  of  this  claim  busi- 

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ness,  and  if  I  set  my  wits  to  work  I  can  find  out  from  other 
fellows  who  know  more.  I'll — "  After  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion. "  I'll  have  a  talk  with  Farquhar  to-morrow.  That's 
what  I'll  do.  Great  Scott!"  in  a  beaming  outburst,  "if 
I  could  push  it  through  for  you,  how  pleased  Jenny  would 
be." 

When  he  went  away  Tom  accompanied  him  downstairs. 
Sheba  and  Rupert  followed  them,  and  all  three  found  them- 
selves lured  out  into  the  moonlit  night  to  saunter  with  him 
a  few  yards  down  the  light  avenue,  talking  still  about  their 
fairy  story.  The  Judge  himself  was  as  fascinated  by  it  as 
if  he  had  been  a  child. 

•"  Why,  it's  such  a  good  story  to  tell,"  he  expatiated;  "  and 
there  must  be  a  great  deal  in  that.  I  never  heard  a  better 
story  for  gaining  sympathy — that  fine  old  Southern  aristo- 
crat standing  by  the  Union  in  a  red-hot  secessionist  town — 
actually  persecuted  on  account  of  it.  He  was  persecuted, 
wasn't  he  ?  "  he  enquired  of  Rupert. 

"Well,"  Rupert  answered,  "everybody  was  furious  at 
him,  of  course — all  his  friends.  People  who  had  known  him 
all  his  life  passed  him  in  the  street  without  speaking.  He'd 
been  very  popular,  and  he  felt  it  terribly.  He  never  was 
the  same  man  after  it  began.  He  was  old,  and  his  spirit 
gave  way." 

"  Just  so!  "  exclaimed  the  Judge,  stopping  upon  the  pave- 
ment, elated  even  to  oratory  by  the  picture  presented. 
"  Fine  old  Southern  aristocrat — on  the  brink  of  magnificent 
fortune — property  turned  into  money  that  he  may  realise  it 
- — war  breaks  out,  ruins  him — Spartan  patriotism — one 
patriot  in  a  town  of  rebels  hated  and  condemned  by  every- 
body— but  faithful  to  his  country.  Friends — old  friends — 
refuse  to  recognise  him.  rortune  gone — friends  lost — heart 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

broken/'  He  snatched  Tom's  big  hand  and  shook  it  enthusi- 
astically. "  Tom!  "  he  said;  "  I'd  like  to  make  a  speech  to 
the  House  about  it  myself.  I  believe  they  would  listen  to 
me.  How  set  up  Jenny  would  be — how  set  up  she'd  be." 

He  left  them  all  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm;  they  could  see 
him  gesticulating  a  little  to  himself  as  he  walked  down  the 
avenue  in  the  moonlight. 

"  That's  just  like  him,"  said  Tom;  "  he'd  rather  please 
Jenny  than  set  the  House  of  Representatives  on  fire.  And 
he'd  undertake  the  whole  thing — work  to  give  a  man  a 
fortune  for  mere  neighbourliness.  We  were  a  neighbourly 
lot  in  Hamlin,  after  all." 

The  Judge  went  home  to  his  boarding-house  and  sat  late 
in  his  shabby  armchair,  his  legs  stretched  out,  his  hands 
clasped  on  the  top  of  his  rough  head.  He  was  thinking  the 
thing  out,  and  as  he  thought  it  out  his  excitement  grew. 
Sometimes  he  unclasped  his  hands  and  rubbed  his  hair  with 
restless  sigh;  more  than  once  he  unconsciously  sprang  to 
his  feet,  walked  across  the  floor  two  or  three  times,  and 
then  sat  down  again.  He  was  not  a  sharp  schemer,  he  had 
not  even  reached  the  stage  of  sophistication  which  would 
have  suggested  to  him  that  sharp  scheming  might  be  a 
necessary  adjunct  in  the  engineering  of  such  matters  as 
Government  claims.  From  any  power  or  tendency  to  diplo- 
matise he  was  as  free  as  the  illustrative  bull  in  a  china  shop. 
His  bucolic  trust  in  the  simple  justice  and  honest  disinter- 
estedness of  the  political  representatives  of  his  native  land 
(it  being  granted  they  were  of  the  Republican  party)  might 
have  appeared  a  touching  thing  to  a  more  astute  and  ex- 
perienced person  who  had  realised  it  to  its  limits.  When 
he  rubbed  his  hair  excitedly  or  sprang  up  to  walk  about, 
these  manifestations  were  indications,  not  of  doubt  or  dis- 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

trust,,  but  of  elated  motion.  It  was  the  emotional  aspect 
of  the  situation  which  delighted  and  disturbed  him,  the  dra- 
matic picturesqueness  of  it.  Here  was  Tom — good  old  Tom 
— all  Hamlin  knew  Tom  and  his  virtues  and  witticisms — 
Lord!  there  wasn't  a  man  in  the  county  who  didn't  love 
him — yes,  love  him.  And  here  wras  Sheba  that  Tom  had 
been  a  father  to.  And  what  a  handsome  little  creature 
she'd  grown  into — and,  but  for  Tom,  the  Lord  knew  what 
would  have  become  of  her.  And  there  was  that  story  of 
the  De  AVilloughbys  of  Delisleville — handsome,  aristocratic 
lot,  among  the  biggest  bugs  in  the  State — the  fine  old 
Judge  with  his  thousands  of  acres  lying  uncultivated,  and 
he  paying  his  taxes  on  them  through  sheer  patriarchal 
pleasure  in  being  a  big  landowner.  For  years  the  Gov- 
ernment had  benefited  by  his  taxpaying,  while  he  had 
gained  nothing.  And  then  there  was  the  accidental  discov- 
ery of  the  splendid  wealth  hidden  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
— and  the  old  aristocrat's  energy  and  enterprise.  Why,  if 
the  war  had  not  brought  ruin  to  him  and  he  had  carried 
out  his  plans,  the  whole  State  would  have  been  the  richer 
for  his  mines.  Capital  would  have  been  drawn  in,  labour 
would  have  been  in  demand — things  would  have  developed 
— outsiders  would  have  bought  land — new  discoveries  would 
have  been  made — the  wealth  of  the  country's  resources 
would  have  opened  up — the  Government  itself  would  have 
benefited  by  the  thing.  And  then  the  war  had  ruined  all. 
And  yet  the  old  Judge,  overwhelmed  with  disaster  as  he 
was,  had  stood  by  the  Government  and  had  been  scorned 
and  deserted,  and  had  died  broken-hearted  at  the  end, 
and  here  were  his  sole  descendants — good  old  Tom  and  his 
little  beauty  of  a  protegee — (no,  Sheba  wasn't  a  descend- 
ant, but  somehow  she  counted),  and  this  fine  young  De  Wil- 

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loughby — all  of  them  penniless.  Why,  the  justice  of  the 
thing  stared  a  man  in  the  face;  a  claim  like  that  must  go. 
through. 

At  this  juncture  of  his  thought  Judge  Rutherford  was 
standing  upright  in  the  middle  of  his  room.  His  hair  was1 
in  high  disorder  and  his  countenance  flushed.  He  struck 
his  right  fist  hard  against  the  palm  of  his  left  hand. 

"  Why,,  the  whole  thing's  as  straight  as  a  string,"  he  said. 
"It's  got  to  go  through.  I'll  go  and  see  Farquhar  to- 


Farquhar  was  a  cleverer  man  than  the  representative  from 
Hamlin  County.  He  had  been  returned  several  times  by  his 
constituents,  and  his  life  had  been  spent  in  localities  more 
allied  to  effete  civilization  than  was  Barnesville.  He  knew 
his  Washington  and  had  an  astute  interest  in  the  methods- 
and  characteristics  of  new  members  of  Congress,  particularly 
perhaps  such  as  the  rural  districts  loomed  up  behind  as  a 
background.  Judge  Eutherford  he  had  observed  at  the  out- 
set of  his  brief  career,  in  the  days  when  he  had  first  appeared 
in  the  House  of  Representatives  in  his  new  broadcloth  with 
its  new  creases,  and  with  the  uneasy  but  conscientious  ex- 
pression in  his  eye. 

"  There's  a  good  fellow,  I  should  say,"  he  had  remarked  to  < 
the  member  at  the  desk  next  to  him.  "  Doesn't  know  what 
to  do,  exactly — isn't  quite  sure  what  he  has  come  for — but 
means  to  accomplish  it,  whatsoever  it  may  turn  out  to  ber 
to  the  best  of  his  ability.  He'd  be  glad  to  make  friends. 
He's  used  to  neighbours  and  unceremonious  intimacies." 

He  made  friends  with  him  himself  and  found  the  ac- 
quaintance of  interest  at  times.  The  faithfully  reproduced 

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The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

atmosphere  of  Barnesville  had  almost  a  literary  colour. 
Occasionally,  though  not  frequently,  he  encouraged  de- 
lineation of  Jenny  and  Tom  Scott  and  Thacker  and  "  the 
boys/'  He  had  even  inhaled  at  a  distance  vague  whiffs  of 
Sophronia's  waffles. 

On  the  morning  after  the  evening  spent  at  Dupont  Circle 
;  Judge  Rutherford  frankly  buttonholed  him  in  the  lobby. 

"  Farquhar,"  he  said,  "  I'm  chock  full  of  a  story.  It  kept 
'  me  awake  half  the  night.  I  want  to  ask  your  advice  about 
it.  It's  about  a  claim." 

"  You  shouldn't  have  let  it  keep  you  awake,"  replied 
Farquhar.  "  Claims  are  not  novel  enough.  It's  my  opinion 
that  Washington  is  more  than  half  populated  just  now  with 
people  who  have  come  to  present  claims." 

Judge  Rutherford's  countenance  fell  a  little  as  the  coun- 
tenance of  an  enthusiast  readily  falls  beneath  the  breath  of 
non-enthusiasm. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  guess  there  are  plenty  of  them — 
but  there  are  not  many  like  this.  You  never  heard  such 
a  story.  It  would  be  worth  listening  to,  even  if  you  were 
in  the  humour  to  walk  ten  miles  to  kick  a  claim." 

Farquhar  laughed. 

"  I  have  been  in  them,  Guv'nor,"  he  said.  "  The  atmos- 
sphere  is  heavy  with  carpet-baggers  who  all  have  a  reason 
for  being  paid  for  something  by  the  Government.  There's 
one  of  them  now — that  little  Hoosier  hanging  about  the 
doorway.  He's  from  North  Carolina,  and  wants  pay  for 
a  herd  of  cattle." 

In  the  hall  outside  the  lobby  a  little  man  stood  gazing 
with  pale  small  eyes  intent  upon  the  enchanted  space  within. 
He  wore  a  suit  of  blue  jeans  evidently  made  in  the  domestic 
circle.  He  scanned  each  member  of  Congress  who  went  in 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

or  out,  and  his  expression  was  a  combination  of  furtive  eager- 
ness and  tentative  appeal. 

"  I  believe  I've  seen  him  before/'  remarked  Judge  Ruth- 
erford, "  but  I  don't  know  him." 

"He's  been  hanging  about  the  place  for  weeks,"  said 
Farquhar.  "  He's  always  in  the  strangers'  gallery  when 
claims  come  up  for  discussion.  He  looks  as  if  he'd  be  likely 
to  get  what  he  has  come  for,  Hoosier  as  he  is." 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  the  De  Willoughbys,"  said 
Rutherford.  "  I  can't  rest  until  I've  told  someone  about 
it.  I  want  you  to  advise  me  what  to  do." 

Farquhar  allowed  himself  to  be  led  away  into  a  more 
secluded  spot.  He  was  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  greatly 
interested,  but  he  was  well  disposed  towards  the  member 
from  Hamlin  and  would  listen.  They  sat  down  together  in 
one  of  the  rooms  where  such  talk  might  be  carried  on,  and 
the  Judge  forthwith  plunged  into  his  story. 

It  was,  as  his  own  instincts  had  told  him,  a  good  story. 
He  was  at  once  simple  and  ornate  in  the  telling — simple 
in  his  broad  directness,  and  ornate  in  his  dramatic  and  emo- 
tional touches.  He  began  with  the  picture  of  the  De  Wil- 
loughbys of  Delisleville — the  autocratic  and  aristocratic 
Judge,  the  two  picturesque  sons,  and  the  big,  unpicturesque 
one  who  disappeared  from  his  native  town  to  reappear  in 
the  mountains  of  North  Carolina  and  live  his  primitive  life 
there  as  the  object  of  general  adulation.  He  unconsciously 
made  Big  Tom  the  most  picturesque  figure  of  the  lot.  Long 
before  he  had  finished  sketching  him,  Farquhar — who  had 
been  looking  out  of  the  window — turned  his  face  towards 
him.  He  began  to  feel  himself  repaid  for  his  amiable  if 
somewhat  casual  attention.  He  did  not  look  out  of  the 
window  again.  The  history  of  big  Tom  De  Willoughby 

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In   Connection  with 

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alone  was  worth  hearing.  Farquhar  did  not  find  it  necessary 
to  call  Judge  Rutherford's  attention  to  the  fact  that  Sheba 
.and  the  mystery  of  Blair's  Hollow  were  not  to  be  regarded 
as  evidence.  He  realised  that  they  adorned  the  situation 
and  seemed  to  prove  things  whether  it  was  strictly  true  that 
they  did  so  or  not.  The  discovery  of  the  coal,  the  fortunes 
-and  disasters  of  Judge  de  Willoughby,  the  obstinate  loyalty 
abhorred  and  condemned  of  his  neighbours,  his  loneliness 
and  poverty  and  death — his  wasted  estates,  the  big,  bare, 
-empty  house  in  which  his  sole  known  heir  lived  alone,  were 
material  to  hold  any  man's  attention,  and,  enlarged  upon 
t>y  the  member  from  Hamlin,  were  effective  indeed. 

"Now,"  said  the  Judge,  wiping  his  forehead  when  he 
had  finished,  "  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Don't  you  think 
these  people  have  a  pretty  strong  claim?  " 

"  That  story  sounds  as  if  they  had,"  answered  Farquhar; 
^but  the  Government  isn't  eager  to  settle  claims — and  you 
never  know  what  will  be  unearthed.  If  Judge  De  Willough- 
by had  not  been  such  a  blatantly  open  old  opposer  of  his 
neighbour's  political  opinions  these  people  wouldn't  have 
a  shadow  of  a  chance." 

"By  Jupiter!  "  exclaimed  Eutherford,  delightedly;  "he 
was  persecuted — persecuted." 

"  It  was  a  good  thing  for  his  relatives,"  said  Farquhar. 
"  Did  you  say  the  people  had  come  to  Washington?" 

"  All  three  of  them,"  answered  the  Judge,  and  this  time 
his  tone  was  exultant;  "Tom,  and  Sheba,  and  Eupert. 
'They've  rented  some  little  rooms  out  near  Dupont  Circle." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  taken  to  see  them,"  said  Farquhar, 
reflectively.  "  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  Big  Tom  De 
Willoughby." 

"  Would  you  ?  "  cried  the  Judge.  "  Why,  nothing  would 
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suit  me  better — or  them  either,  for  that  matter.    I'll  take 
you  any  day  you  say — any  day." 

"  It  ain't  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  put  a  claim 
through/'  said  Farquhar.  "  It  means  plenty  of  hard  knocks 
and  hard  work  and  anxiety.  Do  you  know  that?  " 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  answered  the  Judge. 
"  But  I'm  going  to  get  this  one  through  if  there's  a  way 
of  doing  it/' 

"  You'll  be  misunderstood  and  called  names  and  slan- 
dered," said  Farquhar,  regarding  his  rugged,  ingenuous  face 
with  some  curiosity.  "  There  may  be  people — even  in  Ham- 
lin  County — who  won't  believe  you  are  not  up  to  some  big 
deal.  What  are  you  doing  it  for?  " 

"  "Why,  for  Tom  and  Sheba  and  Rupert,"  said  the  Judge, 
in  an  outburst  of  neighbourliness.  "  That's  folks  enough 
to  do  it  for,  ain't  it?  There's  three  of  'em — and  I'd  do  it 
for  ary  one — as  we  say  in  Barnesville,"  in  discreet  correction 
of  the  colloquialism. 

Farquhar  laughed  a  little,  and  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
as  they  moved  away  together.  "  I  believe  you  would,"  he 
said;  "  perhaps  that  sort  of  thing  is  commoner  in  Barnes- 
ville than  in  Washington.  I  believe  you  would.  Take  me 
to  see  the  claimants  to-morrow/' 


CHAPTER   XXYII 

WHEN"  Judge  Rutherford  piloted  him  up  the  broad,  un- 
paved  avenue  towards  the  small  house  near  Dupont  Circle, 
the  first  objects  which  caught  Farquhar's  gaze  were  two 
young  people  standing  among  the  unkempt  rose  and  syringa 
bushes  in  the  little  front  garden.  The  slim  grace  and  bloom 
of  their  youth  would  have  caught  any  eye.  They  were 
laughing  happily,  and  the  girl  held  a  branch  of  rosy  blos- 
soms in  her  hand. 

"  Are  they  the  claimants?  "  Farquhar  enquired. 

"  One  of  them  is,"  answered  Rutherford.  "  But  Sheba— 
Sheba  counts  somehow." 

Sheba  looked  at  the  stranger  with  the  soft  gaze  of  deer- 
like  eyes  when  he  was  presented  to  her.  There  was  no  shy- 
ness in  her  woodland  smile. 

"  Judge  Rutherford,"  she  said,  "  Uncle  Matt  has  come — 
Rupert's  Matt,  you  know.  We  can't  help  laughing  about 
it,  but  we  can't  help  being  happy." 

The  boyish  Southern  face  at  her  side  laughed  and  glowed. 
Matt  represented  to  Rupert  the  Lares  and  Penates  his  emo- 
tional nature  required  and  had  been  denied. 

"  If  he  were  not  such  a  practical  creature,"  he  said,  "  I 
might  not  know  what  to  do  with  him.  But  he  worked  his 
way  here  by  engaging  himself  for  the  journey  as  a  sort  of 
nurse  to  an  invalid  young  man  who  wanted  to  join  his  family 
in  Washington  and  was  too  weak  to  travel  alone." 

The  further  from  romance  the  world  drifts,  the  fairer 
296 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

it  becomes  in  its  fagged  eyes.  So  few  stories  unfold  them- 
selves sweetly  from  beginning  to  end  that  a  first  chapter 
is  always  more  or  less  alluring,  and  as  he  marked  the  youth 
and  beauty  of  those  two  and  saw  how  their  young  eyes  and 
smiles  met  in  question  and  response  at  every  thought,  to- 
Farquhar,  who  still  retained  the  fragments  of  an  imagina- 
tion not  wholly  blighted  by  the  House  of  Representatives,, 
it  seemed  rather  as  if  he  had  wandered  into  a  world  where 
young  Cupid  and  Psyche  still  moved  and  breathed  in  human 
guise.  As  central  figures  of  a  government  claim,  the  pair 
were  exquisitely  incongruous.  Their  youth  was  so  radiant 
and  untried,  their  bright  good  looks  so  bloomed,  that  the 
man  looking  at  them  felt — with  a  realising  sense  of  humour 
as  well  as  fanciful  sentiment — as  if  a  spring  wind  wafted 
through  a  wood  close  grown  with  wild  daffodils  had  swept 
into  a  heated  manufactory  where  machinery  whirred  and 
ill-clad  workers  bent  over  their  toil. 

"  Uncle  Tom  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Sheba, 
as  they  went  into  the  house.  "  Judge  Rutherford  says  you 
will  tell  us  what  to  do." 

An  interesting  feature  of  the  situation  to  Farquhar  was 

the  entire  frankness  and  simplicity  of  those  concerned  in  it. 

It  was  so  clear  that  they  knew  nothing  of  the  complications 

they  might  be  called  upon  to  face,  that  their  ignorance  was 

of  the  order  of  charm.    If  he  had  been  some  sharper  claim- 

I  ant  come  to  fleece  them,  their  visitor  knew  this  young 

'  dryad's  eyes  would  have  smiled  at  him  just  as  gratefully,      i 

As  they  mounted  the  stairs,  a  huge  laugh  broke  forth 
above,  and  when  they  entered  the  small  sitting-room  Uncle 
Matt  stood  before  Big  Tom,  holding  forth  gravely,  his  gray 
wool  bared,  his  decently  shabby  hat  in  his  hand. 

"I'd  er  come  as  lady's  maid,  Marse  Thomas  De  Wil- 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

loughby,"  he  was  saying,  "  ef  I  couldn't  er  got  here  no  other 
way.  Seemed  like  I  jest  got  to  honin'  atter  Marse  Rupert, 
an'  I  couldn't  er  stayed  nohow.  I  gotter  be  whar  dat  boy 
is — I  jest  gotler" 

Big  Tom,  rising  to  his  full  height  to  shake  hands  with 
his  visitor,  appeared  physically  to  cast  such  disparagement 
on  the  size  of  the  room  as  was  almost  embarrassing.  Far- 
quhar saw  all  his  values  as  he  met  his  honest,  humourous  eye. 

"  I've  been  talking  to  my  nephew's  body-guard,"  he  said. 
"  All  right,  Uncle  Matt.  You  just  go  to  Miss  Burford  and 
ask  her  to  find  you  a  shake-down.  There's  always  a  place 
to  be  found  for  a  fellow  like  you." 

"  Marse  Thomas  De  Willoughby,"  said  Matt,  "  dish  yer 
niggah  man's  not  gwine  to  be  in  no  one's  way.  I  come  yere 
to  work — dat's  what  I  come  yere  for.  An'  work's  a  thing 
<lat  kin  be  hunted  down — en  a  man  ain't  needin'  no  gun 
to  hunt  it  neder — an'  he  needn't  be  no  mighty  Nimrod." 
And  he  made  his  best  bow  to  both  men  and  shuffled  out  of 
the  room. 

To  Farquhar  his  visit  was  an  interesting  experience  and 
a  novel  one.  For  months  he  had  been  feeling  that  he  lived 
in  the  whirl  of  a  maelstrom  of  schemes  and  jobberies,  the 
inevitable  result  of  the  policy  of  a  Government  which  had 
promised  to  recoup  those  it  had  involuntarily  wronged  dur- 
ing a  national  convulsion.  Upon  every  side  there  had  sprung 
up  claimants — many  an  honest  one,  and  hordes  of  those  not 
honest.  There  were  obvious  thieves  and  specious  ones,  brill- 
iant tricksters  and  dull  ones.  Newspaper  literature  had  been 
incited  by  the  number  and  variety  of  claims,  and  claims — • 
to  a  jocularity  which  spread  over  all  the  land.  Farquhar 
had  seen  most  of  the  types — the  greenhorn,  the  astute  plan- 
ner, the  man  who  had  a  wrong  burning  in  his  breast,  the 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

man  who  'knew  how  to  approach  his  subject  and  the  man 
who  did  not,  the  man  who  buttonholed  everybody  and  was 
diffuse  and  hopeful,  and  the  man  who  was  helpless  before 
the  task  he  had  undertaken.  He  had  never,  however,  seen 
anything  like  the  De  Willoughby  claimants — big  Tom  tell- 
ing his  straightforward  story  with  his  unsanguine  air,  the 
attractive  youngster  adding  detail  with  simple  directness, 
and  the  girl,  Sheba,  her  roe's  eyes  dilated  with  eager  interest 
hanging  upon  their  every  word. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  best  stories  I've  heard,"  he  said  to  Ruth- 
erford, on  their  way  back.  "  But  it's  a  big  claim — it's  a 
huge  claim,  and  the  Government  is  beginning  to  get  restive." 

"  But  don't  you  think  they'll  get  it  through?  "  exclaimed 
Judge  Rutherford.  "  Ain't  they  bound  to  get  it?  It's  the 
Lord's  truth — every  word  they  speak — the  Lord's  truth!  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Farquhar,  "  that's  how  it  struck  me; 
but,  as  a  rule,  it  isn't  the  Lord's  truth  that  carries  a  big 
claim  through." 

He  broke  into  a  short  laugh,  as  if  at  an  inward  realisation 
of  the  aspect  of  the  situation. 

"  They  are  as  straightforward  as  a  lot  of  children,"  he 
said.  "  They  have  nothing  to  hide,  and  they  wouldn't  know 

how  to  hide  it  if  they  had.  It  would  be  rather  a  joke  if " 

And  he  laughed  again. 

"If  what?"  asked  Rutherford. 

"  Ah,  well!  if  that  very  fact  was  the  thing  which  carried 
them  through,"  his  laugh  ending  in  a  shrewd  smile. 

This  carried  the  ingenuous  mind  of  his  companion  beyond 
its  depth. 

"I  don't  see  where  the  joke  would  come  in,"  he  said, 
rather  ruefully.  "  I  should  have  thought  nothing  else  would 
do  it  for  them." 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Farquhar  slapped  him. on  the  shoulder. 

"  So  you  would,"  he  said.    "  That's  why  you  are  the  best 
advocate  they  could  have.    You  are  all  woven  out  of  the 
same  cloth.    You  stand  by  them — and  so  will  I." 
(     Judge  Rutherford  seized  his  hand  and  shook  it  with  affec- 
tionately ardent  pumpings. 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  make  sure  of,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  work  at  this  thing,  and  I  want  a  man  to  help  me 
who  knows  the  ropes.  Lord,  how  I  should  like  to  go  back 
to  Hamlin  and  tell  Jenny  and  the  boys  that  I'd  put  Tom 
through." 

And  as  they  walked  up  the  enclosed  road  to  the  Capitol 
he  devoted  himself  to  describing  anew  Big  Tom's  virtue, 
popularity,  and  witticisms. 

For  weeks  Talbot's  Cross-roads  found  itself  provided  with 
a  conversational  topic  of  absorbing  interest.  Ethan  Cronan, 
who  had  temporarily  "  taken  on  "  the  post-office  and  store, 
had  no  cause  to  fear  that  the  old  headquarters  was  in  danger 
of  losing  popularity.  The  truth  was  that  big  Tom  had 
so  long  presided  over  the  daily  gatherings  that  the  new 
occupant  of  the  premises  was  regarded  merely  as  a  sort  of 
friendly  representative.  Being  an  amiable  and  unambitious 
soul,  Ethan  in  fact  regarded  himself  in  the  same  light,  and 
felt  supported  and  indeed  elevated  by  the  fact  that  he  stood 

,  in  the  shoes  of  a  public  character  so  universally  popular 

i  and  admired. 

"  I  ain't  Tom,  an'  I  cayn't  never  come  a-nigh  him,"  he 
said;  "  but  I  kin  do  my  best  not  to  cast  no  disgrace  on  his 
place,  an'  allus  tradin'  as  fair  as  I  know  how.  It's  a  kinder 
honor  to  set  in  his  chairs  an'  weigh  sugar  out  in  the  scales 
he  used — an'  it  drors  trade  too." 

300 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

During  the  passage  of  the  first  few  weeks,  horses,  wag- 
gons, and  ox-teams  crowded  about  the  hitching-posts,  while 
excitement  ran  high  at  mail-time.  The  general  opinion  was 
that  any  post  might  bring  the  news  that  Congress  was  "  sit- 
ting on  "  the  great  De  Willoughby  claim,  and  that  Wash- 
ington waited  breathless  for  its  decision.  That  all  other 
national  business  should  be  suspended  seemed  inevitable. 
That  any  mail  should  come  and  go  without  bringing  some 
news  was  not  contemplated.  The  riders  of  the  horses  and 
owners  of  the  waggons  sat  upon  the  stone  porch  and  dis- 
cussed probabilities.  They  told  each  other  stories  they  had 
gathered  of  the  bygone  glories  of  the  De  Willoughbys,  of 
the  obstinate  loyalty  of  the  old  Judge  and  the  bitter  indig- 
nation of  his  neighbours,  and  enlarged  upon  the  strength 
of  the  claim  this  gave  him  to  the  consideration  of  the 
Government. 

"  Tom  won't  have  no  trouble  with  his  claim,"  was  the 
general  opinion.  "  He'll  just  waltz  it  through.  Thar  won't 
be  a  hitch." 

But  after  the  first  letter  in  which  he  announced  his  safe 
arrival  in  the  Capital  City,  Tom  wrote  no  more  for  a  week 
or  so,  which  caused  a  disappointment  only  ameliorated  by 
the  belief  that  he  was  engaged  in  "  waltzing  "  the  claim 
through.  Each  man  felt  it  necessary  to  visit  the  Cross-roads 
every  day  to  talk  over  the  possible  methods  employed,  and 
to  make  valuable  suggestions.  Interest  never  flagged,  but 
it  was  greatly  added  to  when  it  was  known  that  Judge  Ruth- 
erford had  ranged  himself  on  Tom's  side. 

"  He's  the  pop-larest  man  in  Hamlin  County,"  it  was  said, 
"  an'  he's  bound  to  be  a  pop'lar  man  in  Congress,  an'  have 
a  pull." 

But  when  the  summer  had  passed,  and  a  touch  of  frost  in 

301 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

the  night  air  loosened  the  chestnuts  in  their  burrs,  and  a 
stray  morning  breeze  shook  them  in  showers  down  upon  the 
carpet  of  rustling  yellowed  leaves,  Tom's  letters  had  become 
few  and  far  between,  and  none  of  them  had  contained  anv 
account  of  the  intentions  of  the  legislative  body  with  regard 
to  the  claim. 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,  boys,"  he  wrote.  "  As  far  as 
I've  gone,  it  seems  a  man  gets  a  claim  through  Congress 
by  waiting  about  Washington  and  telling  his  story  to  dif- 
ferent people  until  he  wears  them  out — or  they  wear  him. 
out." 

For  some  time  after  this  they  did  not  hear  from  him  at 
all.  The  winter  set  in,  and  the  habitues  of  the  Cross-roads 
Post-office  gathered  about  the  glowing  stove.  Under  the 
influence  of  cold  gray  skies,  biting  air,  leafless  trees,  and 
bare  land,  the  claim  seemed  somehow  to  have  receded  into 
the  distance.  The  sanguine  confidence  of  the  community 
had  not  subsided  into  doubt  so  much  as  into  helpless  mysti- 
fication. Months  had  passed  and  nothing  whatsoever  had 
happened. 

"  Seems  somehow,"  said  Jabe  Doty  one  night,  as  he  tilted 
his  chair  forward  and  stared  at  the  fire  in  the  stove,  "  seems 
somehow  as  if  Tom  was  a  right  smart  ways  off — es  ef  he  got 
furder  as  the  winter  closed  in — a'most  like  Washin'ton  city 
hed  moved  a  thousand  miles  or  so  out  West  somewhars,  an* 
took  him  with  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

To  Tom  himself  it  seemed  that  it  was  the  old,  easy-going 
mountain  life  which  had  receded.  The  days  when  he  had  sat 
upon  the  stone  porch  and  watched  the  sun  rise  from  behind 
one  mountain  and  set  behind  another  seemed  to  belong  to 
a  life  lived  centuries  ago.  But  that  he  knew  little  of  occult 
beliefs  and  mysteries,  he  would  have  said  to  himself  that! 
all  these  things  must  have  happened  in  a  long  past  incarna- 
tion. 

The  matter  of  the  De  "Willoughby  claim  was  brought  be- 
fore the  House.  Judge  Eutherford  opened  the  subject  one 
day  with  a  good  deal  of  nervous  excitement.  He  had  sup- 
plied himself  with  many  notes,  and  found  some  little  diffi- 
culty in  managing  them,  being  new  to  the  work,  and  he 
grew  hot  and  uncertain  because  he  could  not  secure  an 
audience.  Claims  had  already  become  old  and  tiresome 
stories,  and  members  who  were  unoccupied  pursued  their 
conversation  unmovedly,  giving  the  speaker  only  an  occa- 
sional detached  glance.  The  two  representatives  of  their 
country  sitting  nearest  to  him  were,  not  at  all  furtively,  eat- 
ing apples  and  casting  their  cores  and  parings  into  their 
particular  waste-paper  baskets.  This  was  discouraging  and 
baffling.  To  quote  the  Judge  himself;  no  one  knew  any- 
thing about  Hamlin  County,  and  certainly  no  one  was  dis- 
turbed by  any  desire  to  be  told  about  it. 

That  night  Rutherford  went  to  the  house  near  Dupont 
Circle.  Big  Tom  was  sitting  in  the  porch .  with  Rupert 
and  Sheba.  Uncle  Matt  was  digging  about  the  roots  of  a 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

rose-bush,  and  the  Judge  caught  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Burf  ord 
looking  out  from  behind  the  parlour  curtains. 

The  Judge  wore  a  wearied  and  vaguely  bewildered  look 
as  he  sat  down  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  large,  clean 
white  handkerchief. 

"  It's  all  different  from  what  I  thought— it's  all  different," 
he  said. 

"  Things  often  are,"  remarked  Tom,  "  of tener  than  not." 

Rupert  and  Sheba  glanced  at  each  other  questioningly  and 
listened  with  anxious  eyes. 

"And  it's  different  in  a  different  way  from  what  I  ex- 
pected," the  Judge  went  on.  "  They  might  have  said  and 
done  a  dozen  things  I  should  have  been  sort  of  ready  for, 
"but  they  didn't.  Somehow  it  seemed  as  if — as  if  the  whole 
thing  didn't  matter." 

Tom  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about. 

"  That's  not  the  way  things  begin  that  are  going  to  rush 
through,"  he  said. 

Sheba  followed  him  and  slipped  her  hand  through  his 
arm. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  faltered,  "that  perhaps  we  shall 
not  get  the  money  at  all,  Uncle  Tom?" 

Tom  folded  her  hand  in  his — which  was  easily  done. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  if  we  do  get  it,"  he  answered,  "  it  will 
not  come  to  us  before  we  want  it  pretty  badly — the  Lord 
knows  how  badly." 

For  every  day  counts  in  the  expenditure  of  a  limited  sum, 
and  on  days  of  discouragement  Tom's  calculation  of  their 
resources  left  him  a  troubled  man. 

When  Judge  Rutherford  had  gone  Rupert  sat  with  Sheba 
in  the  scented  summer  darkness.  He  drew  his  chair  oppo- 
site to  hers  and  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his  own. 

304 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

"  Suppose  I  have  done  a  wrong  thing,"  he  said.  "  Sup- 
pose I  have  dragged  you  and  Uncle  Tom  into  trouble?  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  in  a  quick,  soft  voice.  "  I  am 
glad  you  came."  And  the  slight,  warm  fingers  closed  round 
his. 

He  lifted  them  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them  over  and  over 
again.  "  Are  you  glad  I  came  ?  "  he  murmured.  "  Oh, 
Sheba!  Sheba!  " 

"  Why  do  you  say  '  Oh,  Sheba  '?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  love  you  so — and  I  am  so  young — and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do.  You  know  I  love  you,  don't  you?  " 

She  leaned  forward  so  that  he  saw  her  lovely  gazelle  eyes 
lifted  and  most  innocently  tender.  "  I  want  you  to  love  me,'* 
she  said;  "  I  could  not  bear  you  not  to  love  me." 

He  hesitated  a  second,  and  then  suddenly  pressed  his 
glowing  face  upon  her  palm. 

"  But  I  don't  love  you  as  Uncle  Tom  loves  you,  Sheba," 
he  said.  "I  love  you — young  as  I  am — I  love  you — dif- 
ferently." 

Her  swaying  nearer  to  him  was  a  sweetly  unconscious  and 
involuntary  thing.  .  Their  young  eyes  drowned  themselves 
in  each  other. 

"  I  want  you,"  she  said,  the  note  of  a  young  ring-dove 
answering  her  mate  murmuring  in  her  voice,  "  I  want  you 
to  love  me — as  you  love  me.  I  love  your  way  of  loving 
me." 

"  Darling!  "  broke  from  him,  his  boy's  heart  beating  fast 
and  high.  And  their  soft  young  lips  were,  through  some 
mystery  of  power,  drawn  so  near  to  each  other  that  they 
met  like  flowers  moved  to  touching  by  the  summer  wind. 

Later  Rupert  went  to  Tom,  who  sat  by  an  open  window- 
in  his  room  and  looked  out  on  the  moonlit  stretch  of  avenue* 

305 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

The  boy's  heart  was  still  beating  fast,  and,  as  the  white  light 
struck  his  face,  it  showed  his  eyes  more  like  Delia  Vanuxem's 
than  they  had  ever  been.  Their  darkness  held  just  the  look 
Tom  remembered,  but  could  never  have  described  or  ex- 
plained to  himself. 

"Uncle  Tom,"  he  began,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  "I  couldn't 
go  to  bed  without  telling  you." 

Tom  glanced  up  at  him  and  learned  a  great  deal.  He 
put  a  big  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Sit  down,  boy,"  he  said,  his  kind  eyes  warming.  Rupert 
sat  down. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  done  it,"  he  broke  forth. 
"  I  did  not  know  I  was  going  to  do  it.  I  suppose  I  am  too 
young.  I  did  not  mean  to — but  I  could  not  help  it." 

"Sheba?"  Tom  inquired,  simply. 

"  Her  eyes  were  so  lovely,"  poured  forth  the  boy.  "  She 
looked  at  me  so  like  an  angel.  Whenever  she  is  near  me,  it 
seems  as  if  something  were  drawing  us  together." 

"  Yes,"  was  Tom's  quiet  answer. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  all  about  it,"  impetuously.  "  I  have 
been  so  lonely,  Uncle  Tom,  since  my  mother  died.  You 
don't  know  how  I  loved  her — how  close  we  were  to  each 
other.  She  was  so  sweet  and  wonderful — and  I  had  nothing 
else." 

Tom  nodded  gently. 

"  I  remember,"  he  said.    "  I  never  forgot." 

He  put  the  big  hand  on  the  boy's  knee  this  time.  "I 
loved  her  too,"  he  said,  "  and  I  had  nothing  else." 

"  Then  you  know — you  know!  "  cried  Rupert.  "  You  re- 
member what  it  was  to  sit  quite  near  her  and  see  her  look 
at  you  in  that  innocent  way — how  you  longed  to  cry  out 
and  take  her  in  your  arms." 

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Tom  stirred  in  his  seat.  Time  rolled  back  twenty-five 
years. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  yes — I  remember! "  he  answered. 

"  It  was  like  that  to-night/'  the  young  lover  went  on. 
"And  I  could  not  stop  myself.  I  told  her  I  loved  her — 
and  she  said  she  wanted  me  to  love  her — and  we  kissed 
each  other." 

Big  Tom  got  up  and  stood  before  the  open  window.  His 
hands  were  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets  and  he  stared  out 
at  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

"  Good  Lord!  "  he  said.  "  That's  what  ought  to  come  to 
every  man  that  lives — but  it  doesn't." 

Eupert  poured  forth  his  confession,  restrained  no  more. 

"  From  that  first  night  when  I  rode  through  the  moun- 
tains over  the  white  road  and  stopped  at  your  gate — since 
I  looked  up  and  saw  her  standing  on  the  balcony  with  the 
narcissus  in  her  hair  it  has  always  been  the  same  thing.  It 
began  that  very  moment — it  was  there  when  she  leaned  for- 
ward and  spoke  to  me.  I  had  never  thought  of  a  woman 
before — I  was  too  poor  and  sad  and  lonely  and  young.  And 
there  she  was — all  white — and  it  seemed  as  if  she  was 
mine" 

Tom  nodded  his  head  as  if  to  a  white  rose-bush  in  the 
small  garden. 

"I  am  as  poor  as  ever  I  was,"  said  Eupert.  "I  am  a 
"beggar  if  we  lose  our  claim;  but  I  am  not  sad,  and  I  am  not 
lonely — I  can't  be — I  can't  be!  I  am  happy — everything's 
happy — because  she  knows — and  I  have  kissed  her." 

"What  did  you  think  I  would  say  when  you  told  me?  " 
Tom  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  impetuously;  "  but  I  knew  I  must  come 
to  you.  It  seems  a  million  years  ago  since  that  hot  morning 

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in  the  old  garden  at  Delisleville — when  I  had  never  seen 
her." 

"  One  of  the  things  I  have  thought  about  a  good  deal/' 
said  Tom,  with  quite  a  practical  manner,  "  has  been  love. 
I  had  lots  of  time  to  think  over  things  at  the  Cross-roads, 
and  I  used  to  work  them  out  as  far  as  my  mind  would  carry 
me.  Love's  as  much  an  element  as  the  rest  of  them.  There's 
earth,  air,  fire,  water — and  love.  It  has  to  be  calculated  for. 
What  I've  reasoned  out  is  that  it  has  not  been  calculated 
for  enough.  It's  going  to  come  to  all  of  us — and  it  will 
either  come  and  stay,  and  make  the  old  earth  bloom  with 
flowers — or  it  will  come  and  go,  and  leave  it  like  a  plain 
swept  by  fire.  It's  not  a  trivial  thing  that  only  boys  and 
girls  play  with;  it's  better — and  worse.  It  ought  to  be  pre- 
pared for  and  treated  well.  It's  not  often  treated  well. 
People  have  got  into  the  way  of  expecting  trouble  and  trag- 
edy to  come  out  of  it.  We  are  always  hearing  of  its  unhappi- 
ness  in  books.  Poets  write  about  it  that  way." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  often  unhappy,"  said  Rupert;  "  but  just 
now  it  seems  as  if  it  could  not  be." 

"  What  I've  been  wanting  to  see,"  said  Tom,  "  is  young 
love  come  up  like  a  flower  and  be  given  its  dew  and  sun 
and  rain — and  bloom  and  bloom  its  best." 

He  drew  a  big  sigh. 

"  That  poor  child  who  lies  on  the  hillside  under  the  pines," 
he  went  on,  "  Sheba's  mother — hers  was  young  love — and 
it  brought  tragedy  and  death.  Delia,"  his  voice  was  un- 
steady, "  your  mother's  was  young  love,  and  her  heart  was 
broken.  No,  it's  not  often  well  treated.  And  when  you 
and  Sheba  came  to  me  that  night  with  your  boy  and  girl 
eyes  shining  with  gladness  just  because  you  had  met  each 
other,  I  said  to  myself,  *  By  the  Lord,  here  is  what  it  springs 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

from.     Perhaps  it  may  come  to  them;    I  wonder  if  it 
will?'" 

"  You  thought  it  might,  even  then, "  Rupert  cried. 

"  Yes,  I  did/7  was  Tom's  answer.  "  You  were  young—- 
you were  drawn  together — it  seemed  natural.  I  used  to 
watch  you,  and  think  it  over,  making  a  kind  of  picture  to 
myself  of  how  it  would  be  if  two  young  things  could  meet 
each  other  and  join  hands  and  wander  on  among  roses  until 
they  reached  the  gate  of  life — and  it  swung  open  for  them 
and  they  passed  through  and  found  another  paradise." 

He  stopped  a  second  and  turned  to  look  at  Rupert's 
dreamy  face  with  a  smile  not  all  humorous.  "  I'm  a  sen- 
timental chap  for  my  size,"  he  added.  "  That's  what  I 
wanted  for  Sheba  and  you — that's  what  I  want.  That  sort 
of  thing  was  left  out  of  my  life;  but  I  should  like  to  see 
it  before  I'm  done  with.  Good  God!  why  can't  people  be 
happy?  I  want  people  to  be  happy." 

The  boy  was  trembling. 

"  Uncle  Tom,"  he  said,  "  Sheba  and  I  are  happy  to- 
night." 

"  Then  God  have  mercy  on  the  soul  of  the  man  who  would 
spoil  it  for  you,"  said  Big  Tom,  with  actual  solemnity. 
""  I'm  not  that  man.    You  two  just  go  on  being  happy;  try' 
and  make  up  for  what  your  two  mothers  had  to  bear." 

Rupert  got  up  from  his  chair  and  caught  the  big  hand 
in  his.  It  was  a  boy's  action,  and  he  looked  particularly 
like  a  boy  as  he  did  it.  "It  is  just  like  you,"  he  broke 
forth.  "  I  did  not  know  what  you  would  say  when  I  told 
you — but  I  ought  to  have  known  you  would  say  something 
like  this.  It's — it's  as  big  as  you  are,  Uncle  Tom,"  ingenu- 
ously. 

That  was  his  good-night.    "When  he  went  away  Big  Tom 

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settled  into  his  chair  again  and  looked  out  for  some  time 
longer  at  the  bright  night.  He  was  going  back  to  two  other 
nights  which  lay  in  the  years  behind.  One  was  the  night 
ho  turned  his  back  on  Delisleville  and  rode  towards  the 
mountain  with  a  weight  on  his  kindly  heart  which  he  had 
grimly  told  himself  seemed  to  weigh  a  ton;  the  other  was 
the  night  he  had  been  wakened  from  his  sleep  by  the  knock 
on  the  door  of  the  bedroom  behind  the  Cross-roads  Post- 
office  and  had  ridden  out  under  the  whiteness  of  the  moon 
to  find  in  the  bare  cabin  at  Blair's  Hollow  the  little  fair 
girl  who  had  sobbed  and  died  as  she  clung  to  his  warm  hand. 


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CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  world  had  heard  and  talked  ranch  of  the  Reverend 
John  Baird  in  the  years  which  followed  his  return  to  Willow- 
field.  During  the  first  few  months  after  his  reappearance 
among  them,  his  flock  had  passed  through  a  phase  of  rest- 
less uncertainty  with  regard  to  him.  Certain  elder  mem- 
bers of  his  congregation  had  privately  discussed  questions 
of  doctrine  with  anxiousness.  Had  not  Nature  already  ar- 
raigned herself  upon  the  man's  side  by  bestowing  upon  him 
a  powerful  individuality,  heads  might  have  been  shaken, 
and  the  matter  discussed  openly  instead  of  in  considerately 
confidential  conclave.  It  was,  however,  less  easy  to  enter 
into  argument  with  such  a  man  than  with  one  slow  and 
uncertain  of  tongue,  and  one  whose  fortunes  rested  in  the 
hands  of  the  questioners.  Besides,  it  was  not  to  be  denied 
that  even  the  elderly  and  argumentative  found  themselves 
listening  to  his  discourses.  The  young  and  emotional  often 
thrilled  and  quaked  before  them.  In  his  hour  he  was  the 
pioneer  of  what  to-day  we  call  the  modern,  and  seemed  to 
speak  his  message  not  to  a  heterogeneous  mental  mass,  but 
to  each  individual  man  and  woman  who  sat  before  him  with 
upturned  face.  He  was  daringly  human  for  the  time  in 
which  he  lived,  it  being  the  hour  when  humanity  was  over- 
powered by  deity,  and  to  be  human  was  to  be  iconoclastic. 
His  was  not  the  doctrine  of  the  future — of  future  repentance 
for  the  wrongs  done  to-day,  of  future  reward  for  the  good 
to-day  achieves,  all  deeds  being  balanced  on  a  mercantile 

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account  of  profit  and  loss.  His  was  a  cry  almost  fierce, 
demanding,  in  the  name  of  human  woe,  that  to-day  shall 
hold  no  cruelty,  no  evil  done,  even  to  the  smallest  and  most 
unregarded  thing. 

By  some  chance — though  he  alone  realised  the  truth  of 
the  fact — the  subjects  of  his  most  realistic  and  intense  ap- 
peals to  his  hearers  had  the  habit  of  developing  themselves 
in  his  close  talks  with  Latimer.  Among  the  friends  of  the 
man  on  whom  all  things  seemed  to  smile,  the  man  on  whom 
the  sun  had  never  shone,  and  who  faithfully  worshipped  him, 
was  known  as  his  Shadow.  It  was  not  an  unfitting  figure 
of  speech.  Dark,  gloomy,  and  inarticulate,  he  was  a  strange 
contrast  to  the  man  he  loved;  but,  from  the  hour  he  had 
stood  by  Latimer's  side,  leaning  against  the  rail  of  the  re- 
turning steamer,  listening  to  the  monotonously  related  story 
of  the  man's  bereavement,  John  Baird  had  felt  that  Fate 
herself  had  knit  their  lives  together.  He  had  walked  the 
deck  alone  long  hours  that  night,  and  when  the  light  of  the 
moon  had  broken  fitfully  through  the  stormily  drifting 
clouds,  it  had  struck  upon  a  pallid  face. 

"Poor  fellow!"  he  had  said  between  his  teeth;  "poor 
darkling,  tragic  fellow!  I  must  try — try — oh,  my  God!  I 
must  try " 

Then  their  lives  had  joined  currents  at  Willowfield,  and 
the  friendship  Baird  had  asked  for  had  built  itself  on  a 
foundation  of  stone. 

There  was  nothing  requiring  explanation  in  the  fact  that 
to  the  less  fortunate  man  Baird's  every  gift  of  wit  and  ease 
was  a  pleasure  and  comfort.  His  mere  physical  attractions 
were  a  sort  of  joy.  When  Latimer  caught  sight  of  his  own 
lank,  ill-carried  figure  and  his  harshly  rugged  sallow  face, 
he  never  failed  to  shrink  from  them  and  avert  his  eyes. 

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To  be  the  companion  of  a  man  whose  every  movement  sug- 
gested strength  and  grace,  whose  skin  was  clear  and  health- 
ful, his  features  well  balanced  and  admirable  in  line — to 
be  the  friend  of  a  human  being  fruilt  by  nature  as  all  human 
beings  should  be  built  if  justice  were  done  to  them,  was 
nourishment  to  his  own  starved  needs. 

When  he  assumed  his  charge  at  the  squalid  little  town 
of  Janway's  Mills,  his  flock  looked  askance  at  him.  He 
was  not  harsh  of  soul,  but  he  was  gloomy  and  had  not  the 
power  to  convey  encouragement  or  comfort,  though  he  la- 
boured with  strenuous  conscientiousness.  Among  the  sor- 
did commonness  of  the  every-day  life  of  the  mill  hands  and 
their  families  he  lived  and  moved  as  Savonarola  had  moved 
and  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  picturesque  wickedness  and 
splendidly  coloured  fanaticism  of  Italy  in  dim,  rich  cen- 
turies past;  but  his  was  the  asceticism  and  stern  self-denial 
of  Savonarola  without  the  uplifting  power  of  passionate 
eloquence  and  fire  which,  through  their  tempest,  awakened 
and  shook  human  souls.  He  had  no  gifts  of  compelling 
fervor;  he  could  not  arouse  or  warm  his  hearers;  he  never 
touched  them.  He  preached  to  them,  he  visited  them  at 
their  homes,  he  prayed  beside  their  dying  and  their  dead, 
he  gave  such  aid  in  their  necessities  as  the  narrowness  of 
his  means  would'  u2ow,  but  none  of  them  loved  him  or 
did  more  than  stoically  accept  him  and  his  services. 

"  Look  at  us  as  we  stand  together,"  he  said  to  Baird  on 
an  evening  when  they  stood  side  by  side  within  range  of 
an  old-fashioned  mirror.  "  Those  things  your  reflection 
represents  show  me  the  things  I  was  born  without.  I  might 
make  my  life  a  daily  crucifixion  of  self-denial  and  duty  done 
at  all  costs,  but  I  could  not  wear  your  smile  or  speak  with 
your  voice.  I  am  a  man,  too,"  with  smothered  passion;  "  I 

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am  a  man,  too!  And  yet — what  woman  looks  smilingly  at 
me — what  child  draws  near  unafraid?" 

"  You  are  of  the  severe  monastic  temperament,"  an- 
swered Baird.  "  It  is  all  a  matter  of  temperament.  Mine 
is  facile  and  a  slave  to  its  emotions.  Saints  and  martyrs  are 
made  of  men  like  you — never  of  men  such  as  I  am." 

"Are  you  sure  of  the  value  to  the  world  of  saints  and 
martyrs?  "  said  Latimer.  "  I  am  not.  That  is  the  worst 
of  it." 

"  Ah!  the  world,"  Baird  reflected.  "  If  we  dare  to  come 
back  to  the  world — to  count  it  as  a  factor " 

"  It  is  only  the  world  we  know,"  Latimer  said,  his  harsh 
voice  unsteady;  "  the  world's  sorrow — the  world's  pain — the 
world's  power  to  hurt  and  degrade  itself.  That  is  what  seems 
to  concern  us — if  we  dare  to  say  so — we,  who  were  thrust 
into  it  against  our  wills,  and  forced  to  suffer  and  see  others 
suffer.  The  man  who  was  burned  at  the  stake,  or  torn  in 
the  arena  by  wild  beasts,  believed  he  won  a  crown  for  him- 
self— but  it  was  for  himself." 

"  What  doth  it  profit  a  man,"  quoted  Baird,  vaguely,  but 
as  if  following  a  thought  of  his  own,  "  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul?  " 

Latimer  flung  back  his  shock  of  uneven  black  locks.  His 
hollow  eyes  flashed  daringly. 

"  What  doth  it  profit  a  man,"  he  cried,  "  if  he  save  his 
own  soul  and  lose  the  whole  world,  caring  nothing  for  its 
agony,  making  no  struggle  to  help  it  in  its  woe  and  grieving? 
A  Man  once  gave  His  life  for  the  world.  Has  any  man 
ever  given  his  soul?" 

"  You  go  far — you  go  far!  "  exclaimed  Baird,  drawing  a 
short,  sharp  breath. 

Latimer's  deep  eyes  dwelt  upon  him  woefully.  "Have 
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you  known  what  it  was  to  bear  a  heavy  sin  on  your  soul?  " 
he  asked. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  John  Baird,  a  little  bitterly,  "  it 
is  such  men  as  I,  whose  temperaments — the  combination 
of  forces  you  say  you  lack — lead  them  to  the  deeds  the  world 
calls  ' heavy  sins' — and  into  the  torment  of  regret  which 
follows.  You  can  bear  no  such  burden — you  have  no  such 
regret." 

Latimer,  whose  elbow  rested  on  the  mantel,  leaned  a 
haggard  forehead  on  his  hand. 

"I  have  sinned,"  he  said.  "It  was  that  others  might 
be  spared;  but  I  have  put  my  soul  in  peril.  Perhaps  it  is 
lost— lost! " 

Baird  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  shook  him.  It  was 
a  singular  movement  with  passion  in  it. 

"No!  No!  "  he  cried.  "  Rouse,  man,  and  let  your  reason 
speak.  In  peril?  Lost — for  some  poor  rigid  law  broken 
to  spare  others?  Great  God!  No!" 

"  Reason!  "  said  Latimer.  "  What  you  and  I  must  preach 
each  week  of  our  lives  is  that  it  is  not  reason  a  man  must 
be  ruled  by,  but  blind,  wilful  faith." 

"  I  do  not  preach  it,"  Baird  interposed.  "  There  are 
things  I  dare  to  leave  unsaid." 

"  I  have  spoken  falsely,"  Latimer  went  on,  heavily.  "  I 
have  lived  a  lie — a  lie — but  it  was  to  save  pure  hearts  from 
breaking.  They  would  have  broken  beneath  the  weight 
of  what  I  have  borne  for  them.  If  I  must  bear  punishment 
for  that,  I — Let  me  bear  it." 

The  rigid  submission  of  generations  of  the  Calvinistic 
conscience  which  presumed  to  ask  no  justice  from  its  God 
and  gave  praise  as  for  mercy  shown  for  all  things  which 
were  not  damnation,  and  which  against  damnation's  self 

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dared  not  lift  its  voice  in  rebellion,  had  so  far  influenced 
the  very  building  of  his'  being  that  the  revolt  of  reason  in 
his  brain  filled  him  with  gloomy  terror.  There  was  the 
appeal  of  despair  on  his  face  as  he  looked  at  Baird. 

"  Your  life,  your  temperament  have  given  you  a  wider 
horizon  than  mine/'  he  said.  "  I  have  never  been  in  touch 
with  human  beings.  I  have  only  read  religious  books — 
stern,  pitiless  things.  Since  my  boyhood  I  have  lived  in 
terror  of  the  just  God — the  just  God — who  visits  the  sins 
of  the  fathers  upon  the  children  even  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation.  I — Baird—"  his  voice  dropping,  his  face  pallid, 
""  I  have  hated  Him.  I  keep  His  laws,  it  is  my  fate  to  preach 
His  word — and  I  cower  before  Him  as  a  slave  before  a 
tyrant,  with  hatred  in  my  heart." 

"Good  God!"  Baird  broke  forth,  involuntarily.  The 
force  of  the  man's  desperate  feeling,  his  horror  of  himself, 
his  tragic  truthfulness,  were  strange  things  to  stand  face 
to  face  with.  He  had  never  confronted  such  a  thing  before, 
and  it  shook  him. 

Latimer's  face  relaxed  into  a  singular,  rather  pathetic 
smile. 

"Good  God!"  he  repeated;  "we  all  say  that — I  say  it 
myself.  It  seems  the  natural  human  cry.  I  wonder  what 
it  means?  It  surely  means  something — something." 

John  Baird  looked  at  him  desperately. 

"  You  are  a  more  exalted  creature  than  I  could  ever  be," 
he  said.  "  I  am  a  poor  thing  by  comparison;  but  life  struck 
the  wrong  note  for  you.  It  was  too  harsh.  You  have  lived 
among  the  hideous  cruelties  of  old  doctrines  until  they  have 
wrought  evil  in  your  brain." 

He  stood  up  and  threw  out  his  arms  with  an  involuntary 
gesture,  as  if  he  were  flinging  off  chains. 

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"Ah,  they  are  not  true!  They  are  not  true!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "  They  belong  to  the  dark  ages.  They  are  relics 
of  the  days  when  the  upholders  of  one  religion  believed  that 
they  saved  souls  by  the  stake  and  the  rack  and  thumbscrew. 
There  were  men  and  women  who  did  believe  it  with  rigid 
honesty.  There  were  men  and  women  who,  believing 
in  other  forms,  died  in  torture  for  their  belief.  There  is 
no  God  Who  would  ask  such  demoniac  sacrifice.  We  have 
come  to  clearer  days.  Somewhere — somewhere  there  is- 

light." 

"  You  were  born  with  the  temperament  to  see  its  far-off 
glimmer  even  in  your  darkest  hour/'  Latimer  said.  "  It  is 
for  such  as  you  to  point  it  out  to  such  as  I  am.  Show  it  to 
me — show  it  to  me  every  moment  if  you  can! " 

Baird  put  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder  again. 

"  The  world  is  surging  away  from  it — the  chained  mind, 
the  cruelty,  the  groping  in  the  dark,"  he  said,  "  as  it  surged 
away  from  the  revengeful  Israelitish  creed  of  '  eye  for  eye 
and  tooth  for  tooth '  when  Christ  came.  It  has  taken  cen- 
turies to  reach,  even  thus  far;  but,  as  each  century  passed, 
each  human  creature  who  yearned  over  and  suffered  with 
his  fellow  has  been  creeping  on  dragging,  bleeding  knees 
towards  the  light.  But  the  century  will  never  come  which 
will  surge  away  from  the  Man  who  died  in  man's  agony 
for  men.  In  thought  of  Him  one  may  use  reason  and  needs 
no  faith." 

The  germ  of  one  of  the  most  moving  and  frequently 
quoted  of  Baird's  much-discussed  discourses  sprang — he  told 
his  friends  afterwards — from  one  such  conversation,  and  was 
the  outcome  of  speech  of  the  dead  girl  Margery.  On  a  black 
and  wet  December  day  he  came  into  his  study,  on  his  return 
from  some  parish  visits,  to  find  Latimer  sitting  before  the 

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fire,  staring  miserably  at  something  he  held  in  his  hand. 
It  was  a  little  daguerrotype  of  Margery  at  fifteen. 

"  I  found  it  in  an  old  desk  of  mine,"  he  said,  holding  it 
out  to  Baird,  who  took  it  and  slightly  turned  away  to  lean 
against  the  mantel,  as  he  examined  it. 

The  child's  large  eyes  seemed  to  light  up  the  ugly  shadows 
of  the  old-fashioned  mushroom  hat  she  wore,  the  soft  bow 
of  her  mouth  was  like  a  little  Love's,  she  bloomed  with  an 
angelic  innocence,  and  in  her  straight  sweet  look  was  the 
unconscious  question  of  a  child-woman  creature  at  the  dawn 
of  life. 

John  Baird  stood  looking  down  at  the  heavenly,  tender 
little  face. 

There  was  a  rather  long  silence.  During  its  passing  he 
was  far  away.  He  was  still  far  away  when  at  length  an 
exclamation  left  his  lips.  He  did  not  hear  his  words  him- 
self— he  did  not  remember  Latimer,  or  notice  his  quick 
movement  of  surprise. 

"How  sweet  she  was!"  he  broke  forth.  "How  sweet 
she  was!  How  sweet!  " 

He  put  his  hand  up  and  touched  his  forehead  with  the 
action  of  a  man  in  a  dream. 

"  Sometimes,"  he  said,  low  and  passionately,  "  sometimes 
I  am  sick  with  longing  for  her — sick! " 

"  You!  "  Latimer  exclaimed.  "  You  are  heart-sick  for 
her! " 

Baird  came  back.  The  startled  sound  in  the  voice  awoke 
him.  He  felt  himself,  as  it  were,  dragged  back  from  another 
world,  breathless,  as  by  a  giant's  hand.  He  looked  up,  dazed, 
the  hand  holding  the  daguerrotype  dropping  helplessly  by 
his  side. 

"  It  is  not  so  strange  that  it  should  come  to  that,"  he  said. 
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<e  I  seem  to  know  her  so  well.  I  think,"  there  was  a  look 
of  sharp  pain  on  his  face — "  I  think  I  know  the  pitiful 
child-like  suffering  her  dying  eyes  held."  And  the  man 
•<  actually  shuddered  a  little. 

"I  know  it — I  know  it! "  Latimer  cried,  and  he  let  his 
forehead  drop  upon  his  hands  and  sat  staring  at  the  carpet. 

"  I  have  heard  and  thought  of  her  until  she  has  become 
a  living  creature,"  John  Baird  said.  "  I  hear  of  her  from 
others  than  yourself.  Miss  Starkweather — that  poor  girl 
from  the  mills,  Susan  Chapman — you  yourself — keep  her 
before  me,  alive.  I  seem  to  know  the  very  deeps  of  her 
lovingness — and  understand  her.  Oh,  that  she  should  have 
died! "  He  turned  his  face  away  and  spoke  his  next  words 
slowly  and  in  a  lowered  voice.  "  If  I  had  found  her  when 
I  came  back  free — if  I  had  found  her  here,  living — we  two 
might  have  been  brothers." 

"No,  no!"  Latimer  cried,  rising.  "You — it  could 
not " 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and  eyes. 

"What  are  we  saying?"  he  exclaimed,  stammeringly. 
"  What  are  we  thinking  of?  For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if 
she  were  alive  again.  Poor  little  Margery,  with  her  eyes 
like  blue  flowers,  she  has  been  dead  years  and  years  and 
years." 


It  was  not  long  after  this  that  the  Reverend  John  Baird 
startled  a  Boston  audience  one  night  by  his  lecture,  "  Re- 
pentance." In  it  he  unfolded  a  new  passionate  creed  which 
produced  the  effect  of  an  electric  shock.  Newspapers  re- 
ported it,  editorials  discussed  it,  articles  were  written  upon 
it  in  monthly  magazines.  "Repentance  is  too  late,"  was 

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the  note  his  deepest  fervour  struck  with  virile,  almost  ter- 
rible, intensity.  "  Eepent  before  your  wrong  is  done." 

"  Eepentance  comes  too  late/'  he  cried.  "  We  say  a  man 
saves  his  soul  by  it — his  soul!  We  are  a  base,  cowardly  lot. 
Our  own  souls  are  saved — yes!  And  wre  hug  ourselves  and 
are  comforted.  But  what  of  the  thing  we  have  hurt — for 
no  man  ever  lost  his  soul  unless  he  lost  it  by  the  wound 
he  gave  another — by  inflicting  in  some  other  an  agony? 
What  of  the  one  who  has  suffered — who  has  wept  blood? 
I  repent  and  save  myself;  but  repentance  cannot  undo. 
The  torture  has  been  endured — the  tears  of  blood  shed.  It 
is  not  to  God  I  must  kneel  and  pray  for  pardon,  but  to  that 
one  whose  helplessness  I  slew,  and,  though  he  grant  it  me, 
he  still  has  been  slain." 

The  people  who  sat  before  him  stirred  in  their  seats;  some 
leaned  forward,  breathing  quickly.  There  were  those  who 
turned  pale;  here  and  there  a  man  bent  his  head  and  a 
woman  choked  back  a  sob,  or  sat  motionless  with  streaming 
eyes.  "  Eepentance  is  too  late — except  for  him  who  buys 
hope  and  peace  with  it.  A  lifetime  of  it  cannot  undo."  The 
old  comfortable  convention  seemed  to  cease  to  be  support- 
ing. It  seemed  to  cease  to  be  true  that  one  may  wound  and 
crush  and  kill,  and  then  be  admirable  in  escaping  by  smug 
repentance.  It  seemed  to  cease  to  be  true  that  humanity 
need  count  only  with  an  abstract,  far-off  Deity  Who  can 
easily  afford  to  pardon — that  one  of  his  poor  myriads  has 
been  done  to  death.  It  was  all  new — strange — direct — and 
each  word  fell  like  c,  blov,r  from  a  hammer,  because  a  strong, 
dramatic,  reasoning  creature  spoke  from  the  depths  of  his 
own  life  end  soul.  In  him  Humanity  rose  up  an  awful  real- 
ity, which  must  itself  be  counted  with — not  because  it 
could  punish  and  revenge,  but  because  the  laws  of  nature 

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cried  aloud  as  a  murdered  man's  blood  cries  from  the 
ground. 

As  Baird  crossed  the  pavement  to  reach  his  cab,  the  first 
night  he  delivered  this  lecture,  a  man  he  knew  but  slightly 
stepped  to  his  side  and  spoke  to  him. 

"  Mr.  Baird,"  he  said,  "  will  you  drive  me  to  the  station  ?  " 

Baird  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  some  surprise.  There 
were  cabs  enough  within  hailing  distance.  The  man  was 
well  known  as  a  journalist,  rather  celebrated  for  his  good 
looks  and  masculine  charm.  He  was  of  the  square-shoul- 
dered, easy-moving,  rich-coloured  type;  just  now  his  hand- 
some eye  looked  perturbed. 

"  I  am  going  away  suddenly,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  Baird's 
questioning  expression.  "I  want  to  catch  the  next  train. 
I  want  you  to  see  me  off — you." 

"  Let  us  get  in,"  was  Baird's  brief  reply.  He  had  an 
instant  revelation  that  the  circumstance  was  not  trivial  or 
accidental. 

As  the  door  closed  and  the  cab  rolled  away  his  companion 
leaned  back,  folding  his  arms. 

"  I  had  an  hour  to  pass  before  keeping  an  appointment," 
he  said.  "  And  I  dropped  in  to  hear  you.  You  put  things 
before  a  man  in  a  new  way.  You  are  appallingly  vivid.  I 
am  not  going  to  keep  my  appointment.  It  is  not  easy  not 
to  keep  it!  I  shall  take  the  train  to  New  York  and  catch 
to-morrow's  steamer  to  Liverpool.  Don't  leave  me  until 
you  have  seen  me  off.  I  want  to  put  the  Atlantic  Ocean 
and  a  year  of  time  between  myself  and " 

"  Temptation,"  said  Baird,  though  he  scarcely  realised 
that  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  the  devil! "  exclaimed  the  other  man  savagely. 
"  Call  her  that  if  you  like — call  me  that — call  the  whole 

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thing  that!  She  does  not  realise  where  we  are  drifting. 
She's  a  lovely  dreamer  and  has  not  realised  that  we  are 
human.  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  realise  it  until  the  passion 
of  your  words  brought  me  face  to  face  with  myself.  I  am 
repenting  in  time.  Don't  leave  me!  I  can't  carry  it  through 
to-night  alone." 

John  Baird  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage  and 
folded  his  arms  also.  His  heart  was  leaping  beneath  them. 

"Great  God!"  he  said,  out  of  the  darkness.  "I  wish 
someone  had  said  such  words  to  me — years  ago — and  not 
left  me  afterwards!  Years  ago!  " 

"  I  thought  so/'  his  companion  answered,  briefly.  "  You 
could  not  have  painted  it  with  such  flaming  power — other- 
wise." & 

They  did  not  speak  again  during  the  drive.  They  scarcely 
exchanged  a  dozen  words  before  they  parted.  The  train 
was  in  the  station  when  they  entered  it. 

Five  minutes  later  John  Baird  stood  upon  the  platform, 
looking  after  the  carriages  as  they  rolled  out  noisily  behind 
trailing  puffs  of  smoke  and  steam. 

He  had  asked  no  questions,  and,  so  far  as  his  own  knowl- 
edge was  concerned,  this  was  the  beginning,  the  middle,  and 
the  end  of  the  story.  But  he  knew  that  there  had  been 
a  story,  and  there  might  have  been  a  tragedy.  It  seemed 
that  the  intensity  of  his  own  cry  for  justice  and  mercy  had 
arrested  at  least  one  of  the  actors  in  it  before  the  curtain 
fell. 

A  few  nights  later,  as  they  sat  together,  Baird  and  Latimer 
spoke  of  this  incident  and  of  the  lecture  it  had  followed 
upon. 

"  Eepentance!  Repentance!  "  Latimer  said.  "  What  led 
you  to  dwell  upon  repentance?  " 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Thirty  years  of  life,"  was  Baird's  answer.  "  Forty  of 
them."  He  was  leaning  forward  gazing  into  the  red-hot 
coals.  "And  after  our  talk,"  he  added,  deliberately. 
"  Margery." 

Latimer  turned  and  gazed  at  him.  \ 

Baird  nodded. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  Her  picture.  Her  innocent  face  and 
the  soft,  helpless  youth  of  it.  Such  young  ignorance  is 
helpless — helpless!  If  in  any  hour  of  ruthlessness — or  mad- 
ness— a  man  had  done  such  tenderness  a  wrong,  what  re- 
pentance— what  repentance  could  undo  ?  " 

"  None,"  said  Latimer,  and  the  words  were  a  groan. 
"  None — through  all  eternity." 

It  was  not  a  long  silence  which  followed,  but  it  seemed 
long  to  both  of  them.  A  dead  stillness  fell  upon  the  room. 
Baird  felt  as  if  he  were  waiting  for  something.  He  knew 
he  was  waiting  for  something,  though  he  could  not  have 
explained  to  himself  the  sensation.  Latimer  seemed  waiting 
too — awaiting  the  power  and  steadiness  to  reach  some  re- 
solve. But  at  length  he  reached  it.  He  sat  upright  and 
clutched  the  arms  of  his  chair.  It  was  for  support. 

"Why  not  now?"  he  cried;  "why  not  now?  I  trust 
you!  I  trust  you!  Let  me  unburden  my  soul.  I  will  try." 

It  was  Baird's  involuntary  habit  to  sink  into  easy  atti- 
tudes; the  long,  supple  form  of  his  limbs  and  body  lent 
themselves  to  grace  and  ease.  But  he  sat  upright  also,  his 
hands  unconsciously  taking  hold  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair 
as  his  companion  did. 

For  a  moment  the  two  gazed  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
the  contrast  between  their  types  was  a  strange  one — the 
one  man's  face  dark,  sallow,  harsh,  the  other  fine,  sensitive, 
and  suddenly  awake  with  emotion. 

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"  I  trust  you,"  said  Latimer  again.  "  I  would  not  have 
confessed  the  truth  to  any  other  living  creature — upon  the 
rack." 

His  forehead  looked  damp  under  his  black  locks. 

"  You  would  not  have  confessed  the  truth"  Baird  asked, 
in  a  hushed  voice,  "about  what?" 

"  Margery,"  answered  Latimer.    "  Margery." 

He  saw  Baird  make  a  slight  forward  movement,  and  he 
went  on  monotonously. 

"  She  did  not  die  in  Italy,"  he  said.  "  She  did  not  die 
lying  smiling  in  the  evening  sun." 

"  She — did  not  ?  "    Baird's  low  cry  was  a  thing  of  horror. 

"  She  died,"  Latimer  continued,  in  dull  confession,  "  in 
a  log  cabin  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina.  She  died 
in  anguish — the  mother  of  an  hour-old  child." 

"My  God!    My  God!    My  God!" 

Three  times  the  cry  broke  from  Baird. 

He  got  up  and  walked  across  the  room  and  back. 

"  Wait — wait  a  moment!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  For  a  mo- 
ment don't  go  on." 

As  the  years  had  passed,  more  than  once  he  had  been 
haunted  by  a  dread  that  some  day  he  might  come  upon  some 
tragic  truth  long  hidden.  Here  he  was  face  to  face  with  it. 
But  what  imagination  could  have  painted  it  like  this? 

"  You  think  my  lie — a  damnable  thing,"  said  Latimer. 

"  No,  no!  "  answered  the  other  man,  harshly.    "  No,  no!  " 

He  moved  to  and  fro,  and  Latimer  went  on. 

"  I  never  understood,"  he  said.  "  She  was  a  pure  creature, 
and  a  loving,  innocent  one." 

"  Yes,"  Baird  groaned;  "  loving  and  innocent.  Go  on — 
go  on!  It  breaks  my  heart — it  breaks  my  heart!  " 

Remembering  that  he  had  said  "  You  might  have  been 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

my  brother,"  Latimer  caught  his  breath  in  a  groan  too.  He 
understood.  He  had  forgotten — forgotten.  But  now  he 
must  go  on. 

"  At  home  she  had  been  always  a  bright,  happy,  tender 
thing.  She  loved  us  and  we  loved  her.  She  was  full  of 
delicate  gifts.  We  are  poor  people;  we  denied  ourselves 
that  we  might  send  her  to  Boston  to  develop  her  talent. 
She  went  away,  radiant  and  full  of  innocent  gratitude.  For 
some  time  she  was  very  happy.  I  was  making  every  effort 
to  save  money  to  take  her  abroad  that  she  might  work  in 
the  studios  there.  She  had  always  been  a  delicate  little 
creature — and  when  it  seemed  that  her  health  began  to  fail, 
we  feared  the  old  terrible  New  England  scourge  of  consump- 
tion. It  always  took  such  bright  things  as  she  was.  When 
she  came  home  for  a  visit  her  brightness  seemed  gone.  She 
drooped  and  could  not  eat  or  sleep.  We  could  not  bear  to 
realise  it.  I  thought  that  if  I  could  take  her  to  France  or 
Italy  she  might  be  saved.  I  thought  of  her  day  and  night 
— day  and  night." 

He  paused,  and  the  great  knot  in  his  throat  worked  con- 
vulsively in  the  bondage  of  his  shabby  collar.  He  began-, 
again  when  he  recovered  his  voice. 

"  I  thought  too  much,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  how  it 
was.  But  just  at  that  time  there  was  a  miserable  story 
going  on  at  the  mills — I  used  to  see  the  poor  girl  day  by 
day — and  hear  the  women  talk.  You  know  how  that  class 
of  woman  talks  and  gives  you  details  and  enlarges  on  them  ? 
The  girl  was  about  Margery's  age.  I  don't  know  how  it  was; 
but  one  day,  as  I  was  standing  listening  to  a  gossipping 
married  woman  in  one  of  their  squalid,  respectable  parlours, 
and  she  was  declaiming  and  denouncing  and  pouring  forth 
anecdotes,  suddenly — quite  suddenly — I  felt  as  if  something 

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had  struck  me.  I  turned  sick  and  white  and  had  to  sit  down. 
Oh,  God!  what  an  afternoon  that  was!  and  how  long  it 
seemed  before  I  got  back  home." 

He  stopped  again.  This  time  he  wiped  sweat  from  his 
forehead  before  he  continued,  hoarsely: 

"  I  cannot  go  over  it — I  cannot  describe  the  steps  by  which 
I  was  led  to — horrid  fear.  For  two  weeks  I  did  not  sleep 
a  single  night.  I  thought  I  was  going  mad.  I  laid  awake 
making  desperate  plans — to  resort  to  in  case — in  case !  " 

His  forehead  was  wet  again,  and  he  stopped  to  touch  it 
with  his  handkerchief. 

"  One  day  I  told  my  mother  I  was  going  to  Boston  to  see 
Margery — to  talk  over  the  possibility  of  our  going  abroad 
together  with  the  money  I  had  worked  for  and  saved.  I  had 
done  newspaper  work — I  had  written  religious  essays — I  had 
taught.  I  went  to  her." 

It  was  Baird  who  broke  the  thread  of  his  speech  now. 
He  had  been  standing  before  a  window,  his  back  to  the 
room.  He  turned  about. 

"  You  found  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  low  and  unsteady.  "  You 
found ?  " 

"  It  was  true,"  answered  Latimer.    "  The  worst." 

Baird  stood  stock  still;  if  Latimer  had  been  awake  to 
externals  he  would  have  seen  that  it  was  because  he  could 
not  move — or  speak.  He  was  like  a  man  stunned. 

Latimer  continued: 

"  She  was  sitting  in  her  little  room  alone  when  I  entered 
it.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  been  passing  through  hours 
of  convulsive  sobbing.  She  sat  with  her  poor  little  hands 
clutching  each  other  on  her  knees.  Hysteric  shudders  were 
shaking  her  every  few  seconds,  and  her  eyes  were  blinded 
with  weeping.  A  child  who  had  been  beaten  brutally  might 

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have  sat  so.  She  was  too  simple  and  weak  to  bear  the  awful 
terror  and  woe.  She  was  not  strong  enough  to  conceal  what 
there  was  to  hide.  She  did  not  even  get  up  to  greet  me, 
but  sat  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  her?  "  Baird  cried  out. 

"  I  only  remember  as  one  remembers  a  nightmare/'  the 
other  man  answered,  passing  his  hand  over  his  brow.  "  It 
was  a  black  nightmare.  I  saw  before  I  spoke,  and  I  began 
to  shake  as  she  was  shaking.  I  sat  down  before  her  and 
took  both  her  hands.  I  seemed  to  hear  myself  saying, '  Mar- 
gery— Margery,  don't  be  frightened — don't  be  afraid  of  Lu- 
cian.  I  will  help  you,  Margery;  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you 
— just  to  talk  to  you.'  That  was  all.  And  she  fell  upon 
the  floor  and  lay  with  her  face  on  my  feet,  her  hands  clutch- 
ing them." 

For  almost  five  minutes  there  was  no  other  word  spoken, 
but  the  breathing  of  each  man  could  be  heard. 

Then  Latimer's  voice  broke  the  stillness,  lower  and  more 
"monotonous. 

"  I  had  but  one  resolve.  It  was  to  save  her  and  to  save 
my  mother.  All  the  soul  of  our  home  and  love  was  bound 
up  in  the  child.  Among  the  desperate  plans  I  had  made  in 
the  long  nights  of  lying  awake  there  had  been  one  stranger 
than  the  rest.  I  had  heard  constantly  of  Americans  en- 
countering each  other  by  chance  when  they  went  abroad. 
When  one  has  a  secret  to  keep  one  is  afraid  of  every  chance, 
however  remote.  Perhaps  my  plan  was  mad,  but  it  accom- 
plished what  I  wanted.  Years  before  I  had  travelled  through 
the  mountain  districts  of  North  Carolina.  One  day,  in  rid- 
ing through  the  country  roads,  I  had  realised  their  strange 
remoteness  from  the  world,  and  the  fancy  had  crossed  my 
mind  that  a  criminal  who  dressed  and  lived  as  the  rudely 

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scattered  population  did:,  and  who  chose  a  lonely  spot  in 
the  woods,  might  be  safer  there  than  with  the  ocean  rolling 
between  him  and  his  secret.  I  spent  hours  in  telling  her 
the  part  she  was  to  play.  It  was  to  be  supposed  that  we 
had  gone  upon  the  journey  originally  planned.  We  were 
to  be  hidden — apparently  man  and  wife — in  some  log  cabin 
off  the  road  until  all  was  over.  I  studied  the  details  as  a 
detective  studies  his  case.  I  am  not  a  brilliant  man,  and 
it  was  intricate  work;  but  I  was  desperate.  I  read  guide- 
books and  wrote  letters  from  different  points,  and  arranged 
that  they  should  be  sent  to  our  mother  at  certain  dates  for 
the  next  few  months. 

"  My  stronghold  was  that  she  was  quite  ignorant  of  travel 
and  would  think  of  nothing  but  that  the  letters  came  from 
me  and  were  about  Margery.  I  made  Margery  write  two  or 
three.  Then  I  knew  I  could  explain  that  she  was  not  strong 
enough  to  write  herself.  I  was  afraid  she  might  break  down 
before  we  could  leave  home;  but  she  did  not.  I  got  her 
away.  By  roundabout  ways  we  travelled  to  the  North  Caro- 
lina mountains.  We  found  a  deserted  cabin  in  the  woods, 
some  distance  from  the  road.  We  dressed  ourselves  in  the 
rough  homespun  of  the  country.  She  went  barefooted,  as 
most  of  the  women  did.  We  so  secluded  ourselves  that  it 
was  some  time  before  it  was  known  that  our  cabin  was  in- 
habited. The  women  have  a  habit  of  wearing  deep  sun- 
bonnets  when  about  their  work.  Margery  always  wore  one 
and  kept  within  doors.  We  were  thought  to  be  only  an  un- 
sociable married  pair.  Only  once  she  found  herself  facing 
curious  eyes.  A  sharp-faced  little  hoosier  stopped  one  day 
to  ask  for  a  drink  of  water  when  I  was  away.  He  stared 
at  her  BO  intently  that  she  was  frightened;  but  he  never 
came  again.  The  child  was  born.  She  died." 

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"When  it  was  born/'  Baird  asked,  "who  cared  for 
her?  » 

"  We  were  alone,"  answered  Latimer.  "  I  did  not  know 
whom  to  call.  I  read  medical  books — for  hours  each  day 
I  read  them.  I  thought  that  perhaps  I  might  be  able  to  do —  v 
what  was  necessary.  But  on  the  night  she  was  taken  ill — 
I  was  stricken  with  terror.  She  was  so  young  and  childlike 
— she  had  lived  through  months  of  torture — the  agony 
seemed  so  unnatural  to  me,  that  I  knew  I  must  go  for  help 
— that  I  was  not  mentally  calm  enough  to  go  through  the 
ordeal.  A  strange  chance  took  me  to  a  man  who  had  years 
before  studied  medicine  as  a  profession.  He  was  a  singular 
being,  totally  unlike  his  fellows.  He  came  to  her.  She  died 
with  her  hand  in  his." 

"  Did  the  child  die  too?  "  Baird  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  No;  it  lived.  .  After  she  was  laid  in  the  earth  on  the 
hillside,  I  came  away.  It  was  the  next  day,  and  I  was  not 
sane.  I  had  forgotten  the  child  existed,  and  had  made  no 
plans  for  it.  The  man  I  spoke  of — he  was  unmarried  and 
lonely,  and  a  strange,  huge  creature  of  a  splendid  humane- 
ness— he  had  stood  by  me  through  all — a  mountain  of 
strength — the  man  came  to  my  rescue  there  and  took  the 
child.  It  would  be  safe  with  him.  I  know  nothing  more." 

"  Do  you  not  know  his  name?  "  Baird  asked. 

"  Yes;    he  was  called  Dwillerby  by  the  country  people.  ' 
I  think  he  had  been  born  a  gentleman,  though  he  lived 
as  the  mountaineers  did." 

"  Afterwards,"  said  Baird,  "  you  went  abroad  as  you  had 
planned?" 

"  Yes.  I  invented  the  story  of  her  death.  I  wrote  the 
details  carefully.  I  learned  them  as  a  lesson.  It  has  been 
my  mother's  comfort — that  story  of  the  last  day — the  open 

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window — the  passing  peasants — the  setting  sun — I  can  see 
it  all  myself.  That  is  my  lie.  Did  you  suspect  it  when  I 
told  it?" 

"  No,  God  knows!  "  Baird  answered.    "  I  did  not." 

"  Never?  "  inquired  Latimer. 

"  What  I  have  thought  was  that  you  had  suffered  much 
more  than  you  wished  your  mother  to  know;  that — perhaps 
— your  sister  .had  suffered  more  than  you  would  reveal;  and 
that  you  dreaded  with  all  your  being  the  telling  of  the  story. 
But  never  such  tragedy  as  this — never — never!  " 

"  The  man — the  man  who  wrought  that  tragedy,"  began 
Latimer,  staring  darkly  before  him,  "  somewhere  he  stands 
to-night — unless  his  day  is  done.  Somewhere  he  stands — as 
real  a  man  as  you." 

"  With  all  his  load  upon  him,"  said  Baird;  "  and  he  may 
have  loved  her  passionately." 

"  It  should  be  a  heavy  load,"  said  Latimer,  with  bitter 
gloom;  "  heavy — heavy." 

"  You  have  not  once  uttered  his  name,"  said  Baird,  the 
thought  coming  to  him  suddenly. 

"  No,"  said  Latimer;  "  I  never  knew  it.  She  prayed  so 
piteously  that  I  would  let  her  hide  it.  She  knelt  and  sobbed 
upon  my  knee,  praying  that  I  would  spare  her  that  one  woe. 
I  could  spare  her  no  other,  so  I  gave  way.  She  thanked  me, 
clinging  to  me  and  kissing  my  hand.  Ah,  her  young,  young 
heart  wrung  with  sobs  and  tears! " 

He  flung  himself  forward  against  the  table,  hiding  his  face 
upon  his  arms,  and  wept  aloud.  Baird  went  and  stood  by 
him.  He  did  not  speak  a  word  or  lay  his  hand  upon  the 
shaking  shoulders.  He  stood  and  gazed,  his  own  chest  heav- 
ing and  awful  tears  in  his  eyes. 

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IN  later  years,  one  at  least  of  the  two  men  never  glanced 
back  upon  the  months  which  followed  without  a  shudder. 
And  yet  outwardly  no  change  took  place  in  their  relations, 
unless  they  seemed  drawn  closer.  Such  a  secret  being  shared 
between  two  people  must  either  separate  or  bind  them  to- 
gether. In  this  case  it  became  a  bond.  They  spoke  of  it 
but  little,  yet  each  was  well  aware  that  the  other  remembered 
often.  Sometimes,  when  they  sat  together,  Latimer  recog- 
nised in  Baird's  eyes  a  look  of  brooding  and  felt  that  he 
knew  what  his  thought  was;  sometimes  Baird,  glancing  at 
his  friend,  found  his  face  darkened  by  reverie,  and  under- 
stood. Once,  when  this  was  the  case,  he  said,  suddenly: 

"  What  is  your  feeling  about — the  man  ?  Do  you  wish 
to  kill  him?" 

"  It  is  too  late,"  Latimer  answered.  "  It  would  undo 
nothing.  If  by  doing  it  I  could  bring  her  back  as  she  was 
before  she  had  seen  his  face — if  I  could  see  her  again,  the 
pretty,  happy  child,  with  eyes  like  blue  convolvulus,  and 
laughing  lips — I  would  kill  him  and  gladly  hang  for  it." 

"  So  would  I,"  said  Baird,  grimly. 

"  To  crucify  him  would  not  undo  it,"  said  Latimer,  look- 
ing sickly  pale.  She  was  crucified — she  lived  through  terror 
and  shame;  she  died — afraid  that  God  would  not  forgive 
her." 

"  That  God  would  not !  "  Baird  gasped. 

Latimer's  bony  hands  were  twisted  together. 

<e  We  were  brought  up  to  believe  things  like  that,"  he  said. 

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"  I  was  afraid,  too.  That  was  the  damnable  part  of  it.  I 
could  not  help  her.  I  have  changed  since  then — I  have 
changed  through  knowing  you.  As  children  we  had  always 
been  threatened  with  the  just  God!  The  most  successful 
preachers  gained  their  power  by  painting  pictures  ,of  the 
torments  of  hell.  That  was  the  fashion  then,"  smiling  hor- 
ribly. 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  that  even  the  fashion  in  Gods 
changes.  When  we  were  shut  up  together  in  the  cabin  on 
the  hillside,  she  used  to  be  overwhelmed  by  paroxysms  of 
fear.  She  read  the  Bible  a  great  deal — because  sinners  who 
wanted  to  repent  always  read  it — and  sometimes  she  would 
come  upon  threats  and  curses,  and  cry  out  and  turn  white 
and  begin  to  shiver.  Then  she  would  beg  me  to  pray  and 
pray  with  her.  And  we  would  kneel  down  on  the  bare  floor 
and  pray  together.  My  prayers  were  worse  than  useless. 
What  could  I  say?  I  was  a  black  sinner,  too — a  man  who 
was  perjuring  his  soul  with  lies — and  they  were  told  and 
acted  for  her  sake,  and  she  knew  it.  She  used  to  cling  about 
my  neck  and  beg  me  to  betray  her — to  whiten  my  soul  by 
confession — not  to  allow  her  wickedness  to  destroy  me — be- 
cause she  loved  me — loved  me.  (  Go  back  to  them  and  tell 
them,  Lucien/  she  would  cry,  'I  will  go  with  you  if  I 
ought — I  have  been  wicked — not  you — I  have  been  shame- 
ful; I  must  bear  it — I  must  bear  it.'  But  she  could  not 
bear  it.  She  died." 

"  Were  you  never  able  to  give  her  any  comfort  ?  "  said 
Baird.  His  eyes  were  wet,  and  he  spoke  as  in  bitter  appeal. 
"  This  had  been  a  child  in  her  teens  entrapped  into  bearing 
the  curse  of  the  world  with  all  its  results  of  mental  horror 
and  physical  agony." 

"  What  comfort  could  I  give  ?  "  was  the  answer.  "  My 
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religion  and  my  social  creed  had  taught  me  that  she  was  a 
vile  sinner — the  worst  and  most  shameful  of  sinners — and 
that  I  was  a  criminal  for  striving  to  save  her  from  the  con- 
sequences of  her  sin.  I  was  defying  the  law  of  the  just  God, 
who  would  have  punished  her  with  heart-break  and  open 
shame.  He  would  not  have  spared  her,  and  He  would  not 
spare  me  since  I  so  strove  against  Him.  The  night  she 
died — through  the  long  hours  of  horrible,  unnatural  con- 
vulsions of  pain — when  cold  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  her 
deathly  childish  face,  she  would  clutch  my  hands  and  cry 
out:  '  Eternal  torments!  For  ever  and  ever  and  ever — could 
it  be  like  this,  Lucien — for  ever  and  ever  and  ever?  '  Then 
she  would  sob  out,  '  God!  God!  God! '  in  terrible,  helpless 
prayer.  She  had  not  strength  for  other  words." 

Baird  sprang  to  his  feet  and  thrust  out  his  hand,  averting 
his  pallid  face. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more,"  he  said.  "  I  cannot — I  cannot 
bear  it." 

"  She  bore  it,"  said  Latimer,  "  until  death  ended  it." 

"  Was  there  no  one — to'  save  her?  "  Baird  cried.  "  Was 
she  terrified  like  that  when  she  died?  " 

"  The  man  who  afterwards  took  her  child — the  man 
D'Willerby,"  Latimer  answered,  "  was  a  kindly  soul.  At 
the  last  moment  he  took  her  poor  little  hand  and  patted  it, 
and  told  her  not  to  be  frightened.  She  turned  to  him  as 
if  for  refuge.  He  had  a  big,  mellow  voice,  and  a  tender, 
protecting  way.  He  said:  '  Don't  be  frightened.  It's  all 
right/  and  his  were  the  last  words  she  heard." 

"  God  bless  the  fellow,  wheresoever  he  is! "  Baird  ex- 
claimed. "  I  should  like  to  grasp  his  hand." 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The  Reverend  John  Baird  delivered  his  lectures  in  many 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

cities  that  year.  The  discussion  they  gave  rise  to  had  the 
natural  result  of  awakenfng  a  keen  interest  in  them.  There 
were  excellent  souls  who  misinterpreted  and  deplored  them, 
there  were  excellent  souls  who  condemned;  there  were  even 
ministers  of  the  gospel  who  preached  against  the  man  as 
an  iconoclast  and  a  pagan,  and  forbade  their  congregations 
to  join  his  audiences.  But  his  lecture-halls  were  always 
crowded,  and  the  hundreds  of  faces  upturned  to  him  when 
he  arose  upon  his  platform  were  the  faces  of  eager,  breath- 
less, yearning  creatures.  He  was  a  man  speaking  to  men, 
not  an  echo  of  old  creeds.  He  uttered  no  threats,  he  painted 
no  hells,  he  called  aloud  to  that  God  in  man  which  is  his 
soul. 

"  That  God  which  is  in  you — in  me,"  he  proclaimed,  "  has 
lain  dormant  because  undeveloped  man,  having  made  for 
himself  in  the  dark  ages  gods  of  wood  and  stone,  demanding 
awful  sacrifice,  called  forth  for  himself  later  a  deity  as  mate- 
rial, though  embodied  in  no  physical  form — a  God  of  ven- 
geance and  everlasting  punishments.  This  is  the  man-cre- 
ated deity,  and  in  his  name  man  has  so  clamoured  that  the 
God  which  is  man's  soul  has  been  silenced.  Let  this  God 
rise,  and  He  will  so  demand  justice  and  noble  mercy  from 
all  creatures  to  their  fellows  that  temptation  and  suffering 
will  cease.  What!  can  we  do  no  good  deed  without  the 
promise  of  paradise  as  reward?  Can  we  refrain  from  no 
evil  unless  we  are  driven  to  it  by  the  threat  of  hell?  Are 
we  such  base  traffickers  that  we  make  merchandise  of  our 
souls  and  bargain  for  them  across  a  counter?  Let  us  awake! 
I  say  to  you  from  the  deepest  depths  of  my  aching  soul — if 
there  were  no  God  to  bargain  with,  then  all  the  more  awful 
need  that  each  man  constitute  himself  a  god — of  justice, 
pity,  and  mercy — until  the  world's  wounds  are  healed  and 

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each  human  thing  can  stand  erect  and  claim  the  joy  of  life 
which  is  his  own." 

Om  the  morning  of  the  day  he  said  these  words  to  the 
crowd  which  had  flocked  to  hear  him,  he  had  talked  long 
with  Latimer.  For  some  weeks  he  had  not  been  strong. 
The  passion  of  intensity  which  ruled  him  when  he  spoke  to 
his  audiences  was  too  strong  an  emotion  to  leave  no  physical 
trace.  After  a  lecture  or  sermon  he  was  often  pallid  and 
shaken. 

"  I  have  things  to  say/'  he  exclaimed  feverishly  to  Lati- 
mer. "  There  are  things  which  must  be  said.  The  spoken 
word  lives — for  good  or  evil.  It  is  a  sound  sent  echoing 
through  all  the  ages  to  come.  Some  men  have  awakened 
echoes  which  have  thrilled  throughout  the  world.  To  speak 
one's  thought — to  use  mere  words — it  seems  such  a  small 
thing — and  yet  it  is  my  conviction  that  nothing  which  is 
said  is  really  ever  forgotten." 

And  his  face  was  white,  his  eyes  burning,  when  at  night 
he  leaned  forward  to  fling  forth  to  his  hearers  his  final  ar- 
raignment. 

"  I  say  to  you,  were  there  no  God  to  bargain  with,  then 
all  the  more  awful  need  that  each  man  constitute  himself 
a  god  of  justice,  pity,  and  mercy — until  the  world's  wounds 
are  healed  and  each  human  thing  can  stand  erect  and  claim 
the  joy  of  life  which  is  his  own." 

The  people  went  away  after  the  lecture,  murmuring 
among  themselves.  Some  of  them  carried  away  awakening 
in  their  eyes.  They  all  spoke  of  the  man  himself;  of  his 
compelling  power,  the  fire  of  meaning  in  his  face,  and  the 
musical,  far-reaching  voice,  which  carried  to  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  most  crowded  buildings. 

"  It  is  not  only  his  words  one  is  reached  by/'  it  was  said. 

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*'  It  is  the  man's  self.  Truly,  he  cries  out  from  the  depths 
of  his  soul." 

This  was  true.  It  was  the  man  himself.  Nature  had 
armed  him  well — with  strength,  with  magnetic  force,  with 
a  tragic  sense  of  the  anguish  of  things,  and  with  that  brain 
which  labours  far  in  advance  of  the  thought  of  the  hour. 
Men  with  such  brains — brains  which  work  fiercely  and  un- 
ceasingly even  in  their  own  despite — reach  conclusions  not 
yet  arrived  at  by  their  world,  and  are  called  iconoclasts. 
Some  are  madly  overpraised,  some  have  been  made  martyrs, 
but  their  spoken  word  passes  onward,  and  if  not  in  their 
own  day,  in  that  to-morrow  which  is  the  to-day  of  other 
men,  the  truth  of  their  harvest  is  garnered  and  bound  into 
sheaves. 

At  the  closing  of  his  lectures,  men  and  women  crowded 
about  him  to  speak  to  him,  to  grasp  his  hand.  When  they 
were  hysterical  in  their  laudations,  his  grace  and  readiness 
controlled  them;  when  they  were  direct  and  earnest,  he 
found  words  to  say  which  they  could  draw  aid  from  later. 

"Am  I  developing — or  degenerating — into  a  popular 
preacher?  "  he  said  once,  with  a  half  restless  laugh,  to  his 
shadow. 

"  You  are  not  popular,"  was  Latimer's  answer.  "  Popular 
is  not  the  word.  You  are  proclaiming  too  new  and  bold 
a  creed." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Baird.  "  The  pioneer  is  not  popular. 
When  he  forces  his  way  into  new  countries  he  encounters 
the  natives.  Sometimes  they  eat  him — sometimes  they  drive 
him  back  with  poisoned  arrows.  The  country  is  their  own; 
they  have  their  own  gods,  their  own  language.  Why  should 
a  stranger  enter  in?  " 

"But  there  is  no  record  yet  of  a  pioneer  who  lived — 
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or  died — in  vain/'  said  Latimer.  "  Some  day — some 
day " 

He  stopped  and  gazed  at  his  friend,  brooding.  His  love 
for  him  was  a  strong  and  deep  thing.  It  grew  with  each 
hour  they  spent  together,  with  each  word  he  heard  him 
speak.  Baird  was  his  mental  nourishment  and  solace.  When 
they  were  apart  he  found  his  mind  dwelling  on  him  as  a 
sort  of  habit.  But  for  this  one  man  he  would  have  lived 
a  squalid  life  among  his  people  at  Janney's  Mills — squalid 
because  he  had  not  the  elasticity  to  rise  above  its  narrow, 
uneducated  dulness.  The  squalor  so  far  as  he  himself  was 
concerned  was  not  physical.  His  own  small,  plain  home 
was  as  neat  as  it  was  simple,  but  he  had  not  the  temperament 
which  makes  a  man  friends.  Baird  possessed  this  tempera- 
ment, and  his  home  was  a  centre  of  all  that  was  most  living, 
It  was  not  the  ordinary  Willowfield  household.  The  larger 
outer  world  came  and  went.  When  Latimer  went  to  it  he 
was  swept  on  by  new  currents  and  felt  himself  warmed  and 
fed. 

There  had  been  scarcely  any  day  during  years  in  which 
the  two  men  had  not  met.  They  had  made  journeys  to- 
gether; they  had  read  the  same  books  and  encountered  the 
same  minds.  Each  man  clung  to  the  intimacy. 

"  I  want  this  thing,"  Baird  had  said  more  than  once;  "  if 
you  want  it,  I  want  it  more.  Nothing  must  rob  us  of  it." 

"  The  time  has  come — it  came  long  ago — "  his  Shadow 
said,  "  when  I  could  not  live  without  it.  My  life  has  grown 
to  yours." 

It  was  Latimer's  pleasure  that  he  found  he  could  be  an 
aid  to  the  man  who  counted  for  so  much  to  him.  Affairs 
which  pressed  upon  Baird  he  would  take  in  hand;  he  was 
able  to  transact  business  for  him,  to  help  him  in  the  develop- 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

ment  of  his  plans,  save  him  frequently  both  time  and  fa- 
tigue. It  fell  about  that  when  the  lectures  were  delivered 
at  distant  points  the  two  men  journeyed  together. 

Latimer  entered  Baird's  library  on  one  occasion  just  as 
a  sharp-faced,  rather  theatrical-looking  man  left  it. 

"  You'll  let  me  know  your  decision,  sir,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible," the  stranger  departed,  saying.  "  These  things  ought 
always  to  be  developed  just  at  the  right  moment.  This  is 
your  right  moment.  Everybody  is  talking  you  over,  one 
way  or  another."  When  the  stranger  was  gone,  Baird  ex- 
plained his  presence. 

"  That  is  an  agent,"  he  said;  "  he  proposes  that  I  shall 
lecture  through  the  States.  I — don't  know,"  as  if  pondering 
the  thing. 

"  The  things  you  say  should  be  said  to  many,"  remarked 
Latimer. 

"  The  more  the  better,"  said  Baird,  reflectively;  "  I  know 
that— the  more  the  better." 

They  sat  and  talked  the  matter  over  at  length.  The 
objections  to  it  were  neither  numerous  nor  serious. 

"  And  I  want  to  say  these  things,"  said  Baird,  a  little 
feverishly.  "  I  want  to  say  them  again  and  again." 

Before  they  parted  for  the  night  it  was  decided  that  he 
should  accede  to  the  proposal,  and  that  Latimer  should 
arrange  to  be  his  companion. 

"  It  is  the  lecture  '  Repentance,'  he  tells  me,  is  most  in 
demand,"  Baird  said,  as  he  walked  to  the  doo.r,  with  a  hand 
in  Latimer's. 


CHAPTEE  XXXI 

FKEQUENTEKS  of  the  Capitol — whether  loungers  or  poli- 
ticians— had  soon  become  familiar  with  the  figure  of  one 
of  the  De  Willoughby  claimants.  It  was  too  large  a  figure 
not  to  be  quickly  marked  and  unavoidably  remembered. 
Big  Tom  slowly  mounting  the  marble  steps  or  standing  on 
the  corridors  was  an  object  to  attract  attention,  and  inquiries 
being  answered  by  the  information  that  he  was  a  party  to 
one  of  the  largest  claims  yet  made,  he  not  unnaturally  was 
discussed  with  interest. 

"  He's  from  the  depths  of  the  mountains  of  North  Caro- 
lina," it  was  explained;  "  he  keeps  a  cross-roads  store  and 
post-office,  but  he  has  some  of  the  best  blood  of  the  South 
in  his  veins,  and  his  claim  is  enormous." 

"Will  he  gain  it?" 

"Who  knows?  He  has  mortgaged  all  he  owns  to  make 
the  effort.  The  claim  is  inherited  from  his  father,  Judge 
De  Willoughby,  who  died  at  the  close  of  the  war.  As  he 
lived  and  died  within  the  Confederacy,  the  Government 
holds  that  he  was  disloyal  and  means  to  make  the  most 
of  it.  The  claimants  hold  that  they  can  prove  him  loyal. 
They'll  have  to  prove  it  thoroughly.  The  Government  is 
growing  restive  over  the  claims  of  Southerners,  and  there 
is  bitter  opposition  to  be  overcome." 

"  Yes.  Lyman  nearly  lost  his  last  election  because  he  had 
favoured  a  Southern  claim  in  his  previous  term.  His  con- 
stituents are  country  patriots,  and  they  said  they  weren't 
sending  a  man  to  Congress  to  vote  for  Eebs." 

"  That's  the  trouble.    When  men's  votes  are  endangered 

339 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

by  a  course  of  action  they  grow  ultra-conservative.  A  vote's 
a  vote." 

That  was  the  difficulty,  as  Tom  found.  A  vote  was  a 
vote.  The  bitterness  of  war  had  not  yet  receded  far  enough 
into  the  past  to  allow  of  unprejudiced  judgment.  Members 
of  political  parties  were  still  enemies,  wrongs  still  rankled, 
graves  were  yet  new,  wounds  still  ached  and  burned.  Men 
who  had  found  it  to  their  interest  to  keep  at  fever  heat 
the  fierce  spirit  of  the  past  four  years  of  struggle  and  blood- 
shed, were  not  willing  to  relinquish  the  tactics  which  had 
brought  fortunes  to  them.  The  higher-minded  were  deter- 
mined that  where  justice  was  done  it  should  be  done  where 
it  was  justice  alone,  clearly  proved  to  be  so.  There  had  been 
too  many  false  and  idle  claims  brought  forward  to  admit 
of  the  true  ones  being  accepted  without  investigation  and 
delay.  In  the  days  when  old  Judge  De  Willoughby  had 
walked  through  the  streets  of  Delisleville,  ostracized  and 
almost  hooted  as  he  passed  among  those  who  had  once  been 
his  friends,  it  would  not  have  been  difficult  to  prove  that 
he  was  loyal  to  the  detested  Government,  but  in  these  later 
times,  when  the  old  man  lay  quiet  in  what  his  few  remaining 
contemporaries  still  chose  to  consider  a  dishonoured  grave, 
undeniable  proof  of  a  loyalty  which  now  would  tend  to  the 
honour  and  advantage  of  those  who  were  of  his  blood  was 
not  easy  to  produce. 

"  The  man  lived  and  died  in  the  Confederacy,"  was  said 
by  those  who  were  in  power  in  Washington. 

"  He  was  constructively  a  rebel.    We  want  proof — proof." 

Most  of  those  who  might  have  furnished  it  if  they  would, 
were  either  scattered  as  to  the  four  winds  of  the  earth,  or 
were  determined  to  give  no  aid  in  the  matter. 

"  A  Southerner  who  deserted  the  South  in  its  desperate 
340 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

struggle  for  life  need  not  come  to  Southern  gentlemen  to 
ask  them  to  help  him  to  claim  the  price  of  his  infamy." 
That  was  the  Delisleville  point  of  view,  and  it  was  difficult 
to  cope  with.  If  Tom  had  been  a  rich  man  and  could  have 
journeyed  between  Delisleville  and  the  Capital,  or  where- 
soever the  demands  of  his  case  called  him,  to  see  and  argue 
with  this  man  or  that,  the  situation  would  have  simplified 
itself  somewhat,  though  there  would  still  have  remained 
obstacles  to  be  overcome. 

"  But  a  man  who  has  hard  work  to  look  his  room  rent 
in  the  face,  and  knows  he  can't  do  that  for  more  than  a  few 
months,  is  in  a  tight  place,"  said  Tom.  "  Evidence  that  will 
satisfy  the  Government  isn't  easily  collected  in  Dupont  Cir- 
cle. These  fellows  have  heard  men  talk  before.  They've 
heard  too  many  men  talk.  There's  Stamps,  now — they've 
heard  Stamps  talk.  Stamps  is  way  ahead  of  me  where  lob- 
bying is  concerned.  He  knows  the  law,  and  he  doesn't  mind 
having  doors  shut  in  his  face  or  being  kicked  into  the  street, 
so  long  as  he  sees  a  chance  of  getting  indemnified  for  his 
'  herds  of  cattle.'  I'm  not  a  business  man,  and  I  mind  a 
lot  of  things  that  don't  trouble  him.  I'm  not  a  good  hand 
at  asking  favours  and  sitting  down  to  talk  steadily  for  a 
solid  hour  to  a  man  who  doesn't  want  to  hear  me  and  hasn't 
five  minutes  to  spare."  But  for  Rupert  and  Sheba  he  would 
have  given  up  the  claim  in  a  week  and  gone  back  to  Talbot's 
Cross-roads  content  to  end  his  days  as  he  began  them  when 
he  opened  the  store — living  in  the  little  back  rooms  on  beans 
and  bacon  and  friend  chicken  and  hominy. 

"  That  suited  me  well  enough,"  he  used  to  say  to  himself, 
irfien  he  thought  the  thing  over.  "  There  were  times  when 
I  found  it  a  bit  lonely — but,  good  Lord!  loneliness  is  a 
small  thing  for  a  man  to  complain  of  in  a  world  like  this. 

341 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

It  isn't  fits  or  starvation.  "When  a  man's  outlived  the  habit 
of  expecting  happiness,  it  doesn't  take  much  to  keep  him 
going." 

But  at  his  side  was  eager  youth  which  had  outlived  noth- 
ing, which  believed  in  a  future  full  of  satisfied  yearnings 
and  radiant  joys. 

"  I  am  not  alone  now,"  said  Rupert;  "  I  must  make  a 
place  and  a  home  for  Sheba.  I  must  not  be  only  a  boy 
in  love  with  her;  I  must  be  a  man  who  can  protect  her  from 
everything — from  everything.  She  is  so  sweet — she  is  so 
sweet.  She  makes  me  feel  that  I  am  a  man." 

She  was  sweet.  To  big  Tom  they  were  both  sweet  in 
their  youth  and  radiant  faith  and  capabilities  for  happiness. 
They  seemed  like  children,  and  the  tender  bud  of  their 
lovely  young  passion  was  a  thing  to  be  cherished.  He  had 
seen  such  buds  before,  but  he  had  never  seen  the  flower. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  the  flower,"  he  used  to  say  to  himself. 
"  To  see  it  would  pay  a  man  for  a  good  deal  he'd  missed 
himself.  The  pair  of  them  could  set  up  a  pretty  fair  garden 
of  Eden — serpents  and  apple-trees  being  excluded." 

They  were  happy.  Even  when  disappointments  befell 
them  and  prospects  were  unpromising  they  were  happy. 
They  could  look  into  each  other's  eyes  and  take  comfort. 
Rupert's  dark  moods  had  melted  away.  He  sometimes  for- 
got they  had  ever  ruled  him.  His  old  boyish  craving  for 
love  and  home  was  fed.  The  bare  little  rooms  in  the  poor 
little  house  were  home.  Sheba  and  Tom  were  love  and 
affection.  When  they  sat  at  the  table  and  calculated  how~ 
much  longer  their  diminishing  store  would  last,  even  as  it 
grew  smaller  and  smaller,  they  could  laugh  over  the  sums, 
they  worked  out  on  slips  of  paper.  So  long  as  the  weather 
was  warm  enough  they  strolled  about  together  in  the  frag- 

342 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

rant  darkness  or  sat  in  the  creeper-hung  porch,  in  the  light 
of  summer  moons;  when  the  cold  nights  came  they  sat 
about  the  stove  or  the  table  and  talked,  while  Sheba  sewed 
buttons  on  or  worked  assiduously  at  the  repairing  of  her 
small  wardrobe.  Whatsoever  she  did,  the  two  men  sat  and 
admired,  and  there  was  love  and  laughter. 

The  strenuous  life  which  went  on  in  the  busier  part  of 
the  town — the  politics,  the  struggles,  the  plots  and  schemes, 
the  worldly  pleasures — seemed  entirely  apart  from  them. 

Sometimes,  after  a  day  in  which  Judge  Eutherford  had 
foeen  encouraged  or  Tom  had  had  a  talk  with  a  friendly 
member  who  had  listened  to  the  story  of  the  claim  with 
signs  of  interest,  they  felt  their  star  of  hope  rising;  it  never 
sinks  far  below  the  horizon  when  one's  teens  are  scarcely 
of  the  past — and  Sheba  and  Rupert  spent  a  wonderful  even- 
ing making  plans  for  a  future  of  ease  and  fortune. 

At  Judge  Rutherford's  suggestion,  Tom  had  long  sought 
an  interview  with  a  certain  member  of  the  Senate  whose 
good  word  would  be  a  carrying  weight  in  any  question  under 
debate.  He  was  a  shrewd,  honest,  business-like  man,  and 
a  personal  friend  of  the  President's.  He  was  much  pursued 
by  honest  and  dishonest  alike,  and,  as  a  result  of  experience, 
had  become  difficult  to  reach.  On  the  day  Tom  was  ad- 
mitted to  see  him,  he  had  been  more  than  usually  badgered. 
Just  as  Tom  approached  his  door  a  little  man  opened  it 
cautiously  and  slid  out,  with  the  air  of  one  leaving  within 
the  apartment  things  not  exhilarating  on  retrospect.  He 
was  an  undersized  country  man,  the  cut  of  whose  jeans 
wore  a  familiar  air  to  Tom's  eye  even  at  a  distance  and 
before  he  lifted  the  countenance  which  revealed  him  as 
Mr.  Stamps. 

"  We  ain't  a-gwine  to  do  your  job  no  good  to-day,  Tom/' 

343 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

he  said,  benignly.  "  He'd  'a'  kicked  me  out  ef  I  hadn't  'a' 
bin  small — jest  same  es  you  was  gwine  ter  that  time  I 
come  to  talk  to  ye  about  Sheby.  He's  a  smarter  man  than 
you  be,  an'  he  seed  the  argyment  I  hed  to  p'int  out  to  you. 
Ye  won't  help  your  job  none  to-day! " 

"  I  haven't  got  a  '  job '  in  hand/'  Tom  answered;  "  your 
herds  of  stock  and  the  Judge's  coal  mines  and  cotton  fields 
are  different  matters." 

He  passed  on  and  saw  that  when  his  name  was  announced 
the  Senator  looked  up  from  his  work  with  a  fretted  move- 
ment of  the  head. 

"Mr.  De  Willoughby  of  Talbot's  Cross-roads?"  he  said. 
Tom  bowed.  He  became  conscious  of  appearing  to  occupy 
too  much  space  in  the  room  of  a  busy  man.  who  had  plainly 
been  irritated. 

"  I  was  told  by  Judge  Rutherford  that  you  had  kindly 
consented  to  see  me,"  he  said. 

The  Senator  tapped  the  table  nervously  with  his  pencil 
and  pushed  some  papers  aside. 

"  Well,  I  find  I  have  no  time  to  spare  this  morning/'  was 
his  brutally  frank  response.  "  I  have  just  been  forced  to 
give  the  time  which  might  have  been  yours  to  a  little  hoosier 
who  made  his  way  in,  heaven  knows  how,  and  refused  to  be 
ordered  out.  He  had  a  claim,  too,  and  came  from  your 
county  and  said  he  wras  an  old  friend  of  yours." 

"  He  is  not  an  old  enemy,"  answered  Tom.  "  There  is 
that  much  foundation  in  the  statement." 

"  Well,  he  has  occupied  the  time  I  had  meant  to  give  you/* 
said  the  Senator,  "and  I  was  not  prepossessed  either  by 
himself  or  his  claim." 

"  I  think  he's  a  man  to  gain  a  claim,"  said  Tom;  "  I'm 
afraid  I'm  not." 

344 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  It  is  fair  to  warn  you  that  I  am  not  friendly  to  claims 
made  by  the  families  of  men  who  lived  in  a  hot-bed  of 
secession,"  said  the  Senator.  He  had  been  badgered  too 
much  this  morning,  and  this  big,  rather  convincing  looking 
applicant  worried  him.  "  I  have  an  appointment  at  the 
White  House  in  ten  minutes." 

"  Then  this  is  no  place  for  me,"  said  Tom.  "  No  man 
is  likely  to  be  friendly  to  a  thing  he  has  no  time  to  talk 
of.  I  will  bid  you  good-morning." 

"  Good-morning,"  returned  the  Senator,  brusquely. 

Tom  went  away  feeling  that  he  was  a  blunderer.  The 
fact  was  that  he  was  a  neophyte  and,  it  was  true,  did  not 
possess  the  qualities  which  make  a  successful  lobbyist.  Mr. 
Stamps  had  wheedled  or  forced  his  way  into  the  great  man's 
apartment  and  had  persisted  in  remaining  to  press  his  claim 
until  he  was  figuratively  turned  out  by  the  shoulders.  Big 
Tom  had  used  only  such  means  to  obtain  the  interview  as 
a  gentleman  might;  he  had  waited  until  he  was  called  to 
take  his  turn,  and  so  had  lost  his  chance.  When  he  had 
found  the  Senator  hurried  and  unwilling  to  spend  time  on 
him  he  had  withdrawn  at  once,  not  feeling  Mr.  Stamps's 
method  to  be  possible. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  stayed  and  buttonholed  him 
in  spite  of  himself,"  he  thought,  ruefully.  "  I'm  a  green- 
horn; I  suppose  a  man  in  my  place  ought  to  stand  his 
ground  whether  it's  decent  or  indecent,  and  make  people 
listen  to  what  he  has  to  say,  and  be  quite  willing  to  be  kicked 
downstairs  after  he  has  said  it.  I'm  a  disgrace  to  my  species 
— and  I  don't  think  much  of  the  species." 

As  he  was  walking  through  one  of  the  corridors  he  saw 
before  him  two  men  who  were  evidently  visitors  to  the 
place.  He  gathered  this  from  their  leisurely  movements 

345 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

and  the  interest  with  which  they  regarded  the  objects  about 
them.  They  looked  at  pictures  and  remarked  upon  decora- 
tions. One  was  a  man  who  was  unusually  well-built.  He 
was  tall  and  moved  well  and  had  lightly  silvered  hair;  his 
companion  was  tall  also,  but  badly  hung  together,  and 
walked  with  a  stoop  of  the  shoulders. 

Tom  walked  behind  them  for  some  yards  before  his  at- 
tention was  really  arrested,  but  suddenly  a  movement  of 
one  man's  head  seemed  to  recall  some  memory  of  the  past. 
He  did  not  know  what  the  memory  was,  but  he  knew  vaguely 
that  it  was  a  memory.  He  followed  a  few  yards  further, 
wondering  idly  what  had  been  recalled  and  why  he  should 
be  reminded  of  the  mountains  and  the  pine-trees.  Yes,  it 
was  the  mountains  and  pine-trees — Hamlin  County,  but  not 
the  Hamlin  County  of  to-day.  Why  not  the  Hamlin  County 
of  to-day?  why  something  which  seemed  more  remote? 
Confound  the  fellow;  he  had  made  that  movement  again. 
Tom  wished  he  would  turn  his  face  that  he  might  see  it,, 
and  he  hurried  his  footsteps  somewhat  that  he  might  come 
within  nearer  range.  The  two  men  paused  with  their  backs 
towards  him,  and  Tom  paused  also.  They  were  looking 
at  a  picture,  and  the  taller  of  the  two  made  a  gesture  with 
his  hand.  It  was  a  long,  bony  hand,  and  as  he  extended 
it  Tom  slightly  started.  It  all  came  back  to  him — the  mem- 
ory which  had  been  recalled.  He  smelt  the  scent  of  the 
pines  on  the  hillside;  he  saw  the  little  crowd  of  mourners- 
about  the  cabin  door;  inside,  women  sat  with  bent  heads, 
upon  two  wooden  chairs  rested  the  ends  of  a  slender  coffin, 
and  by  it  stood  a  man  who  lifted  his  hand  and  said  to  those 
about  him:  "Let  us  pray." 

The  years  swept  back  as  he  stood  there.  He  was  face  to 
face  again  with  the  tragic  mystery  which  had  seemed  to 

346 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

end  in  utter  silence.  The  man  turned  his  face  so  that  it 
was  plainly  to  be  seen — sallow,  rugged,  harsh  in  line.  The 
same  face,  though  older,  and  perhaps  less  tragic — the  face, 
of  the  man.  he  had  left  alone  in  the  awful,  desolate  stillness, 
of  the  empty  room. 

The  next  moment  he  turned  away  again.  He  and  his 
companion  passed  round  a  corner  and  were  gone.  Tom 
made  no  attempt  to  follow  them. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should,"  was  his  thought, 
"either  for  Sheba's  sake  or  his  own.  She  is  happy,  and 
he  feels  his  secret  safe — whatsoever  it  may  have  been.  Per- 
haps he  has  had  time  to  outlive  the  misery  of  it,  and  it 
would  all  be  brought  to  life  again." 

But  the  incident  had  been  a  shock.  There  was  nothing 
to  fear  from  it,  he  knew;  but  it  had  been  a  shock  neverthe- 
less. He  did  not  know  the  man's  name;  he  had  never 
asked  it.  He  was  plainly  one  of  the  many  strangers  who, 
in  passing  through  the  Capital,  went  to  visit  the  public  build- 
ings. The  merest  chance  might  have  brought  him  to  the 
place;  the  most  ordinary  course  of  events  might  take  him 
away.  Tom  went  back  to  Dupont  Circle  in  a  thoughtful 
mood.  He  forgot  the  claim  and  the  Senator  who  had  had 
no  leisure  to  hear  the  statement  of  his  case. 

Rupert  and  Sheba  were  waiting  for  his  return.  Rupert 
had  spent  the  afternoon  searching  for  employment.  He 
had  spent  many  a  long  day  in  the  same  way  and  with  the 
same  result. 

"  They  don't  want  me,"  he  had  said  when  he  came  home* 
"  They  don't  want  me  anywhere,  it  seems — either  in  law- 
yers' offices  or  dry-goods  stores.  I  have  not  been  particu- 
lar." 

They  had  sat  down  and  gazed  at  each  other. 

347 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"I  sometimes  wonder/'  said  Sheba,  "what  we  shall  do 
when  all  our  money  is  gone — every  penny  of  it.  It  cannot 
last  long  now.  We  cannot  stay  here  and  we  cannot  pay 
our  way  back  to  the  mountains.  What  shall  we  do?  " 

"I  shall  go  out  every  day  till  I  find  something  to  do/' 
said  Rupert,  with  the  undiscouraged  fervour  of  youth.  "  I 
am  not  looking  for  employment  for  a  gentleman,  in  these 
days;  I  am  looking  for  work — just  as  Uncle  Matt  is." 

"He  chopped  some  wood  yesterday  and  brought  home 
two  dollars,"  Sheba  said.  "  He  made  me  take  it.  He  said 
he  wanted  to  pay  his  '  bode.' '; 

She  laughed  a  little,  but  her  eyes  were  wet  and  shining. 

Rupert  took  her  face  between  his  hands  and  looked  into 
it  adoringly. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Sheba,"  he  said;  "  don't  be  un- 
happy. Lovely  darling,  I  will  take  care  of  you." 

She  pressed  her  soft  cheek  against  his  hand. 

"  I  know  you  will,"  she  said,  "  and  of  Uncle  Tom,  too. 
I  couldn't  be  unhappy — we  all  three  love  each  other  so. 
I  do  not  believe  we  shall  be  unhappy,  even  if  we  are  poor 
enough  to  be  hungry." 

So  their  moment  of  dismay  ended  in  smiles.  They  were 
passing  through  a  phase  of  life  in  which  it  is  not  easy 
to  be  unhappy.  Somehow  things  always  brightened  when 
they  drew  near  each  other.  His  observation  of  this  truth 
was  one  of  Tom's  pleasures.  He  knew  the  year  of  waiting 
had  managed  to  fill  itself  with  sweetness  for  them.  Their 
hopes  had  been  alternately  raised  and  dashed  to  earth;  one 
day  it  seemed  not  improbable  that  they  were  to  be  million- 
aires, the  next  that  beggary  awaited  them  after  the  dwin- 
dling of  their  small  stock  of  money;  but  they  had  shared 
their  emotions  and  borne  their  vicissitudes  together. 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

When  Tom  entered  the  room  they  rose  and  met  him  with 
questioning  faces. 

"  Was  it  good  fortune?  "  they  cried.  "  Did  you  see  him, 
Uncle  Tom?  What  did  he  say?  " 

He  told  his  story  as  lightly  as  possible,  but  it  could  not 
be  transformed,  by  any  lightness  of  touch,  into  an  encour- 
aging episode.  He  made  a  picture  of  Stamps  sidling  through 
the  barely  opened  door,  and  was  terse  and  witty  at  the 
expense  of  his  own  discomfiture  and  consciousness  of  in- 
competence. He  laughed  at  himself  and  made  them  laugh,, 
but  when  he  sat  down  in  his  accustomed  seat  there  was  a 
shade  upon  his  face. 

The  children  exchanged  glances,  the  eyes  of  each  prompt- 
ing the  other.  They  must  be  at  their  brightest.  They 
knew  the  sight  of  their  happiness  warmed  and  lightened 
his  heart  always. 

"  He  is  tired  and  hungry,"  Sheba  said.  "  We  must  give- 
him  a  beautiful  hot  supper.  Rupert,  we  must  set  the  table." 

They  had  grown  used  to  waiting  upon  themselves,  and 
their  domestic  services  wore  more  or  less  the  air  of  festivities. 
Sheba  ran  downstairs  to  Miss  Burford's  kitchen,  where 
Uncle  Matt  had  prepared  the  evening  meal  in  his  best  man- 
ner. As  the  repasts  grew  more  and  more  simple,  Matt 
seemed  to  display  greater  accomplishments. 

"  It's  all  very  well,  Miss  Sheba,"  he  had  said  once,  when 
she  praised  the  skill  with  which  he  employed  his  scant  re- 
sources. "  It's  mighty  easy  to  be  a  good  cook  when  you'se- 
got  everythin'  right  to  han'.  The  giftness  is  to  git  up  a  fine- 
table  when  you  ain't  got  nuffin'.  Dat's  whar  dish  yer  niggah 
likes  to  show  out.  De  Lard  knows  I'se  got  too  much  yere- 
dis  ve'y  minnit — to  be  a-doin'  credit  to  my  'sperience — too 
much,  Miss  Sheba." 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

He  was  frying  hoe-cake  and  talking  to  Miss  Burford  when 
Sheba  came  into  the  kitchen.  He  was  a  great  comfort  and 
aid  to  Miss  Burford,  and  in  a  genteel  way  the  old  lady  found 
him  a  resource  in  the  matters  of  companionship  and  con- 
versation. Her  life  was  too  pinched  and  narrow  to  allow 
her  even  the  simpler  pleasure  of  social  intercourse,  and 
Matt's  journeys  into  the  world,  and  his  small  adventures, 
and  his  comments  upon  politics  and  social  events  were  a 
solace  and  a  source  of  entertainment  to  her. 

Just  now  he  was  describing  to  her  the  stories  he  had  heard 
of  a  celebrated  lecturer  who  had  just  arrived  in  the  city. 

"  Whether  he's  a  'vivalist  or  jes'  a  plain  preacher  what 
folks  is  runnin'  after,  I  cayn't  quite  make  out,  ma'am," 
he  was  saying.  "  I  ain't  quite  thinkin'  he's  a  'vivalist,  but 
de  peoples  is  a-runnin'  after  him  shore — an'  seems  like 
dey  doin'  it  in  ev'y  city  he  goes  to.  Ev'ybody  want  to  heah 
him — ev'ybody — rich  en  pore — young  en  ole.  De  Rev'end 
John  Baird's  his  name,  an'  he's  got  a  fren'  travellin'  with 
him  as  they  say  is  like  Jonathan  was  to  David  in  dese  yere 
ole  Bible  times.  An'  I  heern  tell  ev  when  he  rise  in  de 
pulpit  de  people's  jest  gets  so  worked  up  at  what  he  preach 
to  'em — dey  jest  cries  an'  rocks  de  benches.  Dat's  what 
make  me  think  he  might  be  a  'vivalist — cos  we  all  knows 
dat  cryin'  an'  rockin'  an'  clappin'  hands  is  what  makes  a 
*vival."  He  was  full  of  anecdotes  concerning  the  new  ar- 
rival whose  reputation  had  plainly  preceded  him. 

"  He  gwine  ter  preach  nex'  Sat'day  on  ( 'Pentance,' "  he 
said  to  Sheba,  with  a  chuckle.  "  Dat's  his  big  lecture  ev'y- 
foody  want  to  hear.  De  hall  shore  to  be  pack  full.  What 
I'm  a-hopin'  is  dat  it'll  be  pack  full  er  Senators  an'  members 
er  Congrest,  an'  he'll  set  some  of  'em  a-'pentin',  dey  ain't 
'tend  to  dere  business  an'  git  people's  claims  through.  Ef 

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I  know'd  de  gen'leman,  I'd  ax  him  to  menshun  dat  special 
an'  pertickler." 

As  they  sat  at  supper,  Sheba  repeated  his  stories  and  com- 
ments. All  the  comments  were  worthy  of  repetition,  and 
most  of  the  anecdotes  were  suggestively  interesting,  illus- 
trating, as  they  did,  the  power  of  a  single  man  over  many. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  and  hear  him  myself,"  she  said. 
"  Uncle  Tom,  have  you  anything  to  repent?  Rupert,  have 
you?  Uncle  Tom,  you  have  not  forgotten  the  Senator. 
You  look  at  me  as  if  you  were  thinking  of  something  that 
was  not  happy." 

"  The  Senator  was  not  particularly  happy,"  remarked 
Tom.  "  He  had  just  had  an  interview  with  Stamps,  and 
he  certainly  was  not  happy  at  the  sight  of  me.  He  thought 
he  had  another  on  his  hands.  He's  in  better  spirits  by  this 
time." 

Sheba  got  up  and  went  to  his  side  of  the  table.  She  put 
her  arms  round  his  neck  and  pressed  her  cheek  against  his, 

"  Forget  about  him,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  not  remembering  him  particularly,"  said  Tom,  the 
shade  passing  from  his  eyes;  I  am  remembering  you — - 
as  you  were  nineteen  years  ago." 

"  Nineteen  years  ago!  "  said  Sheba.    "  I  was  a  baby!  " 

*e  Yes,"  answered  Tom,  folding  a  big  arm  round  her,  and 
speaking  slowly.  "I  saw  a  man  to-day  who  reminded  me 
of  the  day  you  were  born.  Are  you  glad  you  were  born, 
Sheba?  that's  what  I  want  to  be  sure  of." 

The  two  pairs  of  young  eyes  met  glowing.  Tom  knew 
they  had  met,  by  the  warmth  of  the  soft  cheek  touching  him. 

"  Yes,  I  am  glad — I  am  glad — I  am  glad!  "  with  grateful 
sweetness. 

"  And  I — and  I,"  cried  Rupert.  He  sprung  up  and  held 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

out  an  impetuous  boyish  hand  to  Tom.  "  You  know  how 
glad,  Uncle  Tom — look  at  her — look  at  me — see  how  glad 
we  both  are;  and  it  is  you — you  who  have  made  it  so." 

"  It's  a  pretty  big  thing/'  said  Tom,  "  that  two  people 
should  be  glad  they  are  alive."  And  he  grasped  the  ardent 
hand  as  affectionately  as  it  was  offered. 


353 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE  Eeverend  John  Baird  and  his  friend  the  Reverend 
Lucien  Latimer  were  lodged  in  a  quiet  house  in  a  quiet 
street.  The  lecturing  tour  had  been  fatiguing,  and  Baird 
was  glad  of  such  repose  as  he  could  secure.  In  truth,  the 
excitement  and  strain  of  his  work,  the  journeying  from 
place  to  place,  the  hospitalities  from  which  he  could  not 
escape,  had  worn  upon  him.  He  had  grown  thinner,  and 
often  did  not  sleep  well  at  night.  He  used  to  find  himself 
lying  awake  repeating  to  himself  mechanically  words  from 
his  own  lecture.  "  Repentance  is  too  late,"  his  voice  would 
whisper  to  the  darkness.  "  Repentance  cannot  undo." 

His  audiences  found  him  an  irresistible  force.  He  had 
become  more  than  the  fashion  of  the  hour;  he  was  its  pas- 
sion. People  liked  to  look  at  as  well  as  to  hear  him.  He 
was  besieged  by  lion-hunters,  overwhelmed  with  attentions 
in  each  town  or  city  he  visited.  Reporters  followed  him, 
interviewers  besought  appointments,  agreeable  people  in- 
vited him  to  their  houses,  intrusive  people  dogged  him.  Lat- 
imer stood  between  him  and  as  many  fatigues  as  he  could. 
He  transacted  business  for  him,  and  interviewed  interview- 
ers; and  he  went  to  tiring  functions. 

"  When  I  enter  a  room  without  you,  and  make  your  ex- 
cuses, they  must  make  the  most  of  my  black  face;  and  they 
make  the  most  of  it,  but  they  don't  love  me,"  he  said.  "  Still 
it  is  a  thing  to  be  borne  if  it  saves  you  when  you  need  all 
your  forces.  What  does  it  matter?  I  have  never  expected 
to  be  smiled  at  for  my  own  sake  as  they  smile  at  me  for 
yours." 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

In  these  days  of  close  companionship  each  found  in  each 
new  qualities  increasing  the  tie  between  them.  Latimer 
felt  himself  fed  by  the  public  affection  surrounding  the 
man  who  was  his  friend.  He  was  thrilled  by  the  applause 
which  thundered  forth  at  his  words;  he  was  moved  by  the 
mere  sense  of  his  success,  and  the  power  he  saw  him  un- 
knowingly exercise  through  mere  physical  charm. 

"  I  am  nearer  being  a  happy,  or  at  least  a  peaceful,  man 
than  I  had  ever  thought  to  be,"  he  said  to  Baird;  "your 
life  seems  to  fill  mine,  and  I  am  less  lonely."  Which  was 
indeed  a  truth. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  big  Tom  had  caught 
his  glimpse  of  the  two  strangers  in  the  corridor  of  the  Capi- 
tol, Baird  dined  at  the  house  of  the  Senator,  whose  adverse 
mood  had  promised  such  small  encouragement  to  the  De 
Willoughby  claim.  And  in  the  course  of  the  meal  the  host 
epoke  of  both  claim  and  claimants. 

"  The  man  is  a  sort  of  Colossus,"  he  said,  "  and  he  looked 
all  the  heavier  and  bigger  because  my  last  visitor  had  been 
the  smallest  and  most  insignificant  of  the  hoosier  type." 

"  Is  this  man  a  hoosier?  "  was  asked. 

"  No.  He  has  lived  among  the  most  primitive,  and  Ruth- 
erford tells  me  is  a  sort  of  county  institution;  but  he  is  not 
a  hoosier.  He  has  a  large,  humane,  humorous  face,  and 
a  big,  humorous,  mellow  voice.  I  should  rather  have  liked 
the  fellow,  confound  him,  if  I  hadn't  lost  my  patience  before 
he  came  into  the  room." 

"Did  he  tell  you  the  story  of  the  claim?"  enquired  his 
married  daughter. 

"No,  I  didn't  let  him.  I  was  feeling  pretty  sick  of 
claims,  and  I  had  no  time." 

"  Oh,  father,  I  wish  you  had  let  him  tell  it,"  exclaimed 
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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

the  pretty  young  woman.  "  The  truth  is,  I  am  beginning: 
to  be  interested  in  that  claim  myself.  I  am  in  love  with 
Judge  Eutherford  and  his  stories  of  Jenny  and  Tom  Scott, 
His  whole  soul  is  bound  up  in  i  pushing  this  thing  through  *' 
— that's  what  he  calls  it.  He  is  the  most  delightful  lobbyist 
I  ever  met.  He  is  like  a  bull  in  a  china  shop — though  I 
don't  believe  anyone  ever  saw  a  bull  in  a  china  shop." 

"  He  does  not  know  enough  to  give  his  friends  a  rest," 
said  the  Senator.  "  If  he  was  not  such  a  good  fellow  he 
would  bore  a  man  to  death.  He  bores  many  a  man  as  it  is, 
and  people  in  office  won't  stand  being  bored.  He's  too 
ingenuous.  The  shrewd  ones  say  his  ingenuousness  is  too 
good  to  be  true.  He  can't  keep  De  Willoughby's  virtues 
out  of  his  stories  of  him — and  a  man's  virtues  have  nothing 
much  to  do  with  his  claim." 

"  I  met  him  in  one  of  the  squares  yesterday,"  said  Mrs* 
Meredith,  "  and  he  almost  cried  when  he  spoke  of  the  claim. 
He  told  me  that  everything  was  going  wrong — that  it  was 
being  pushed  aside  by  all  sorts  of  things,  and  he  had  lost 
heart.  His  eyes  and  nose  got  quite  red,  and  he  had  to  wink 
hard  to  keep  back  the  tears." 

"  The  fellow  believes  in  it,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  Sen- 
ator; "he  has  that  to  support  him." 

"  He  believes  in  everything,"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  "  and 
it  would  have  touched  your  heart  to  hear  him  talk  about 
the  claimants.  There  is  a  young  nephew  and  a  beautiful 
girl  creature,  who  is  big  Mr.  De  Willoughby's  adopted 
daughter.  She  is  not  a  claimant,  it  is  true,  but  they  alt 
adore  each  other,  and  the  nephew  is  in  love  with  her;  and 
if  the  claim  goes  through  they  will  be  happy  forever  after- 
wards. I  saw  the  nephew  once,  and  he  was  a  beautiful  boy 
with  Southern  eyes  and  a  charming  expression.  Upon  the 

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In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

whole,  I  think  I  am  in  love  with  the  young  couple,  too. 
Their  story  sounded  like  a  pastoral  poem  when  Judge  Ruth- 
erford told  it." 

"  Suppose  you  tell  it  to  us,  Marion/'  said  the  Senator, 
with  a  laugh,  and  a  glance  round  the  table.  "  It  may  ap- 
peal to  our  feelings  and  advance  the  interests  of  the 
claim." 

"  Pray,  tell  it,  Mrs.  Meredith,"  Baird  put  in;  "  the  mere 
mention  of  it  has  appealed  to  my  emotions.  Perhaps  Sen- 
ator Harburton  and  Mr.  Lewis  will  be  moved  also,  and  that 
will  be  two  votes  to  the  good — perhaps  more." 

"  The  charm  of  it  is  that  it  is  a  story  without  a  plot," 
Mrs.  Meredith  said.  "  There  is  nothing  in  it  but  youth 
and  love  and  innocence  and  beauty.  It  is  Romeo  and  Juliet 
without  the  tragedy.  Romeo  appeared  on  a  moonlight  night 
in  a  garden,  and  Juliet  stood  upon  a  balcony  among  roses — 
and  their  young  souls  cried  out  to  each  other.  It  is  all  so 
young  and  innocent — they  only  want  to  spend  their  lives 
together,  like  flowers  growing  side  by  side.  They  want 
nothing  but  each  other." 

"  And  the  claim,"  added  the  Senator. 

"  They  cannot  have  each  other  if  the  claim  fails.    They 
will  have  to  starve  to  death  in  each  other's  arms  like  the 
4  Babes  in  the  Wood ';  I  am  sure  the  robins  will  come  and 
cover  them  with  leaves." 
.  "  But  the  big  uncle,"  her  father  asked. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  Mrs.  Meredith  said.  "  Judge  Rutherford 
is  finest  when  he  enlarges  on  him.  He  says,  over  and  over 
again,  as  if  it  were  a  kind  of  argument,  '  Tom,  now — Tom, 
he  wants  those  two  young  ones  to  be  happy.  He  says  nature 
fixed  it  all  for  them,  so  that  they  could  be  happy — and  he 
doesn't  want  to  see  it  spoiled.  He  says  love  ain't  treated 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

fair,  as  a  rule,  and  lie  wants  to  see  it  given  a  show — a  real 
show." 

At  least  one  pair  of  deeply  interested  listener's  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her.  They  were  the  Reverend  John  Baird's. 

"  It  might  be  a  beautiful  thing  to  see/7  he  said.  "  One 
does  not  see  it.  There  seems  a  fate  against  it.  The  wrong 
people  meet,  or  the  right  ones  do  not  until  it  is  too  late." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  it  myself/'  said  the  host,  "  but  I  am 
afraid  that  the  argument — as  an  argument — would  not  sup- 
port a  claim  on  the  Government." 

"  I  am  going  to  see  the  claimants  and  hear  all  the  argu- 
ments they  can  bring  forward/'  was  Mrs.  Meredith's  con- 
clusion. "  I  want  to  see  Romeo  and  Juliet  together." 

"May  I  go  with  you?  "  asked  Baird. 

Latimer  had  not  come  in  when  he  returned  to  their  lodg- 
ings. He  also  had  been  out  to  spend  the  evening.  But 
it  was  not  many  minutes  before  Baird  heard  his  latch-key 
and  the  opening  of  the  front  door.  He  came  upstairs  rather 
slowly. 

"  You  are  either  ill/'  Baird  said,  when  he  entered,  "  or 
you  have  met  with  some  shock." 

"  Yes;  it  was  a  shock,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  have  been 
dragged  back  into  the  black  pit  of  twenty  years  ago." 

"  Twenty  years?  "  said  Baird. 

"  I  have  seen  the  man  who — was  with  us  in  the  hillside 
cabin,  through  that  night  she  died.  He  passed  me  in  the 
street." 

Baird  stood  still  and  looked  at  him  without  speaking. 
"What  was  there  to  be  said? 

"  He  is  such  a  noticeable  looking  fellow,"  Latimer  went 
on,  "  that  I  felt  sure  I  could  find  out  who  he  was.  In  the 
mountains  they  called  him  '  Big  Tom  D'Willerby/  His 

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The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

real  name  is  De  Willoughby,  and  he  has  been  here  for  some 
months  in  pursuit  of  a  claim,  which  is  a  great  deal  talked 
about." 

"  The  great  De  Willoughby  claim?  "  said  Baird.  "  They 
talked  of  it  to-night  at  dinner." 

Latimer  tapped  the  table  nervously  with  the  fingers  of 
an  unsteady  hand. 

"  He  may  be  living  within  a  hundred  yards  of  us — within 
a  hundred  yards/'  he  said.  "We  may  cross  each  other's 
path  at  any  moment.  I  can  at  least  know — since  fate  has 
brought  us  together  again — I  should  never  have  sought  him 
out — but  one  can  know  whether — whether  it  lived  or  died." 

"  He  has  with  him,"  said  Baird,  "  a  girl  of  nineteen  who 
is  his  adopted  daughter.  I  heard  it  to-night.  She  is  said 
to  be  a  lovely  girl  who  is  in  love  with  a  lovely  boy  who  is 
De  Willoughby's  nephew.  She  is  happy." 

"  She  is  happy,"  murmured  Latimer,  biting  his  livid  lips. 
He  could  not  bring  himself  back  to  the  hour  he  was  living 
in.  He  could  only  see  again  the  bare  little  room — he  could 
hear  the  cries  of  terrified  anguish.  "  It  seems  strange,"  he 
murmured,  "  that  Margery's  child  should  be  happy." 


358 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

I 

IT  was  not  difficult  to  discover  the  abiding  place  of  the' 

De  Willoughby  claimants.  The  time  had  come  when  there 
were  few  who  did  not  know  who  occupied  the  upper  floor 
of  Miss  Burford's  house  near  the  Circle.  Miss  Burford 
herself  had  gradually  become  rather  proud  of  her  boarders, 
and,  as  the  interest  in  the  case  increased,  felt  herself  be- 
coming a  prominent  person. 

"If  the  claim  goes  through,  the  De  Willoughby  family 
will  be  very  wealthy,"  she  said,  genteelly.  "  They  will  re- 
turn to  their  Southern  home,  no  doubt,  and  restore  it  to  its 
fawmah  magnificence.  Mr.  Rupert  De  Willoughby  will 
be  lawd  of  the  mannah." 

She  spent  many  hours — which  she  felt  to  be  very  aristo- 
cratic— in  listening  to  Uncle  Matt's  stories  of  the  "  old  De 
Willoughby  place,"  the  rice-fields  in  "  South  Ca'llina,"  and 
the  "  thousands  of  acres  of  goP  mines  "  in  the  mountains. 
There  was  a  rich  consolation  in  mere  conversation  on  the 
subject  of  glories  which  had  once  had  veritable  substance, 
and  whose  magnitude  might  absolutely  increase  if  fortune 
was  kind.  But  it  was  not  through  inquiry  that  Latimer 
discovered  the  whereabouts  of  the  man  who  shared  his 
secret.  In  two  days'  time  they  met  face  to  face  on  the  steps 
of  the  Capitol. 

Latimer  was  going  down  them;  big  Tom  was  coming  up. 
The  latter  was  lost  in  thought  on  his  affairs,  and  was  not 
looking  at  such  of  his  fellow-men  as  passed  him.  Suddenly 
he  found  himself  one  or  two  steps  below  someone  who  held 
out  a  hand  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"De  Willoughby!"  the  stranger  exclaimed,  and  Tom 
lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  straight  into  those  of  the  man 
he  had  seen  last  nineteen  years  before  in  the  cabin  at 
Blair's  Hollow. 

"  Do  you  know  me  again?  "  the  man  asked.  "  It's  a  good 
many  years  since  we  met,  and  I  am  not  as  easy  to  recognise 
as  you." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you,"  answered  big  Tom,  grasping  the  out- 
stretched hand  kindly.  "  I  saw  you  a  few  days  ago  and 
knew  you." 

"  I  did  not  see  you,"  said  Latimer.  "  And  you  did  not 
speak  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Tom,  slowly;  "  I  thought  it  over  while 
I  walked  behind  you,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it  might 
do  you  no  good — and  to  hold  back  would  do  none  of  us 
any  harm." 

"  None  of  us  ?  "  questioned  Latimer. 

Big  Tom  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Since  you  spoke  to  me  of  your  own  free  will,"  he  said, 
"  let's  go  and  have  a  talk.  There  are  plenty  of  quiet  corners 
in  this  place." 

There  were  seats  which  were  secluded  enough,  though 
people  passed  and  repassed  within  sight  of  them.  People 
often  chose  such  spots  to  sit  and  talk  together.  One 
saw  pairs  of  lovers,  pairs  of  politicians,  couples  of  sight- 
seers. 

They  found  such  a  seat  and  sat  down.  Latimer  could 
not  well  control  the  expression  his  face  wore. 

"None  of  us?"  he  said  again. 

Tom  still  kept  a  friendly  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  She  is  a  beautiful  young  woman,  though  she  will  always 
seem  more  or  less  of  a  child  to  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  kept 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

her  safe  and  I've  made  her  happy.  That  was  what  I  meant 
to  do.  I  don't  believe  she  has  had  a  sad  hour  in  her  life. 
What  I'm  sick  of  is  seeing  people  unhappy.  I've  kept  un- 
happiness  from  her.  We've  loved  each  other — that's  what 
we've  done.  She's  known  nothing  but  having  people  about 
who  were  fond  of  her.  They  were  a  simple,  ignorant  lot 
of  mountain  hoosiers,  but,  Lord!  they  loved  her  and  she 
loved  them.  She's  enjoyed  the  spring,  and  she's  enjoyed 
the  summer,  and  she's  enjoyed  the  autumn  and  the  winter. 
The  rainy  days  haven't  made  her  feel  dull,  and  the  cold 
ones  haven't  made  her  shiver.  That's  the  way  she  has  grown 
up — just  like  a  pretty  fawn  or  a  forest  tree.  Now  her  young 
mate  has  come,  and  the  pair  of  them  fell  deep  in  love  at 
sight.  They  met  at  the  right  time  and  they  were  the  right 
pair.  It  was  all  so  natural  that  she  didn't  know  she  was 
in  love  at  first.  She  only  knew  she  was  happier  every 
day.  I  knew  what  was  the  matter,  and  it  made  me  happy 
just  to  look  on.  Good  lord!  how  they  love  each  other — 
those  children.  How  they  look  at  each  other  every  minute 
without  knowing  they  are  doing  it;  and  how  they  smile 
when  their  eyes  meet — without  knowing  why.  I  know  why. 
It's  because  they  are  in  paradise — and  God  knows  if  it's 
to  be  done  I'm  going  to  keep  them  there.'' 

"  My  God!  "  broke  from  Latimer.  "  What  a  heart  you 
have,  man! "  He  turned  his  face  to  look  at  him  almost 
as  if  in  reverent  awe.  "  Margery's  child!  Margery's  child!  " 
he  repeated  to  himself.  "Is  she  like  her  mother?"  he 
asked. 

"I  never  saw  her  mother — when  she  was  happy,"  Tom 
answered.  "  She  is  taller  than  her  mother  and  has  eyes 
like  a  summer  morning  sky.  It's  a  wonderful  face.  I 
sometimes  think  she  must  be  like — the  other." 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  want  to  see  her/'  said  Latimer.  "  She  need  know 
;nothing  about  me.  I  want  to  see  her.  May  I?" 

"  Yes.  We  are  staying  here  to  push  our  claim,  and  we 
.are  living  near  Dupont  Circle,  and  doing  it  as  cheaply  as  we 
can.  We  haven't  a  cent  to  spare,  but  that  hasn't  hurt  us 
.so  far.  If  we  win  our  claim  we  shall  be  bloated  bondholders; 
if  we  lose  it,  we  shall  have  to  tramp  back  to  the  mountains 
.and  build  a  log  hut,  and  live  on  nuts  and  berries  until  we 
can  raise  a  crop.  The  two  young  ones  will  set  up  a  nest 
of  their  own  and  live  like  Adam  and  Eve — and  I  swear 
they  won't  mind  it.  They'd  be  happy  rich,  but  they'll  be 
happy  poor.  When  would  you  like  to  come  and  see  her?  " 

"May  I  come  to-morrow?"  asked  Latimer.  "And  may 
I  bring  a  friend  with  me?  He  is  the  human  being  who  is 
nearest  to  me  on  earth.  He  is  the  only  living  soul  who 
knows — what  we  know.  He  is  the  Reverend  John  Baird." 

"  What!  "  said  Tom.  "  The  man  who  is  setting  the  world 
on  fire  with  his  lectures — the  '  Repentance  '  man?  " 

"  Yes.v 

"  She'll  like  to  see  him.  No  one  better.  We  shall  all 
like  to  see  him.  We  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  him." 

They  did  not  part  for  half  an  hour.  When  they  did 
Latimer  knew  a  great  deal  of  the  past.  He  knew  the  story 
of  the  child's  up-growing,  with  the  sun  rising  from  behind 
one  mountain  and  setting  behind  another;  he  seemed  to 
know  the  people  who  had  loved  and  been  familiar  with  her 
throughout  her  childish  and  girlish  years;  he  knew  of  the 
fanciful  name  given  her  in  infancy,  and  of  the  more  fanciful 
-one  her  primitive  friends  and  playmates  had  adopted.  He 
knew  the  story  of  Rupert,  and  guessed 'vaguely  at  the  far 
past  in  which  Delia  Vanuxem  had  lived  and  died. 

"  Thank  God  I  saw  you  that  day! "  he  said.  "  Thank 
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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

God  I  went  to.  you  that  night!  "    And  they  grasped  hands 
again  and  went  their  separate  ways. 

Latimer  went  home  and  told  Baird  of  the  meeting  and 
of  the  appointment  for  the  following  day. 

"  I  felt  that  you  would  like  to  see  the  man,"  he  said. 
"  He  is  the  finest,  simple  being  in  the  world.  Soul  and  body 
are  on  a  like  scale." 

"  You  were  right  in  thinking  I  should  like  to  see  him," 
answered  Baird.  "  I  have  thought  of  him  often."  He 
regarded  his  friend  with  some  anxiety. 

"  To  meet  her  face  to  face  will  be  a  strange  thing/'  he 
added.  "  Do  you  think  you  can  hide  what  you  must  feel? 
It  will  not  be  easy — even  for  me." 

"  It  will  not  be  easy  for  either  of  us — if  she  looks  at  us 
with  Margery's  eyes.  You  will  know  them.  Margery  was 
happy,  too,  when  the  picture  you  have  seen  was  made." 

That — to  see  her  stand  before  them  in  her  youth  and 
beauty,  all  unknowing — would  be  a  strange  thing,  was  the 
thought  in  the  mind  of  each  as  they  walked  through  the 
streets  together,  the  next  evening.  The  flare  of  an  occa- 
sional street-lamp  falling  on  Latimer's  face  revealed  all  its 
story  to  his  companion,  though  it  might  not  have  so  revealed 
'  itself  to  another.  Baird  himself  was  wondering  how  they 
should  each  bear  themselves  throughout  the  meeting.  She 
would  be  so  wholly  unconscious — this  girl  who  had  always 
been  happy  and  knew  nothing  of  the  past.  To  her  they 
would  be  but  a  middle-aged  popular  lecturer  and  his  unat- 
tractive-looking friend — while  each  to  himself  was  a  man 
concealing  from  her  a  secret.  They  must  eliminate  it  from 
their  looks,  their  voices,  their  air.  They  must  be  frank 
and  courteous  and  conventional.  Baird  turned  it  all  over 

363 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

in  his  mind.  When  they  reached  the  house  the  second-story 
windows  were  lighted'  as  if  to  welcome  them.  Matt  opened 
the  door  for  them,  attired  in  his  best  and  bowing  low.  To 
receive  such  guests  he  felt  to  be  an  important  social  event,, 
which  seemed  to  increase  the  chances  of  the  claim  and  point 
to  a  future  when  distinguished  visitors  would  throng  to  a 
much  more  imposing  front  door.  He  announced,  with  an 
air  of  state,  that  his  master  and  young  mistress  were  "  re- 
ceivin',"  and  took  ceremonious  charge  of  the  callers.  He 
had  brushed  his  threadbare  coat  and  polished  each  brass 
button  singly  until  it  shone.  An  African  imagination  aided 
him  to  feel  the  dignity  of  hospitality. 

The  sound  of  a  girl's  voice  reached  them  as  they  went 
upstairs.  They  glanced  at  each  other  involuntarily,  and 
Latimer's  breath  was  sharply  drawn.  It  was  not  the  best 
preparation  for  calmness. 

A  glowing  small  fire  was  burning  in  the  stove,  and,  plain 
and  bare  as  the  room  was,  it  was  filled  with  the  effect  of 
brightness.  Two  beautiful  young  people  were  laughing 
together  over  a  book,  and  both  rose  and  turned  eager  faces 
towards  the  door.  Big  Tom  rose,  too,  and,  advancing  to 
meet  the  visitors,  brought  the  girl  with  him. 

She  was  built  on  long  and  supple  lines,  and  had  happy 
eyes  and  lovely  bloom.  The  happy  eyes  were  Margery's, 
though  they  were  brown  instead  of  harebell  blue,  and  looked 
out  from  a  face  which  was  not  quite  Margeryrs,  though  its 
smile  was  hers.  Latimer  asked  himself  if  it  was  possible 
that  his  manner  wore  the  aspect  of  ordinary  calm  as  he  stood 
before  her. 

Sheba  wondered  at  the  coldness  of  his  hand  as  she  took  it. 
She  was  not  attracted  by  his  anxious  face,  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  his  personality  produced  on  her  the  effect 

364 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

it  frequently  produced  on  those  meeting  him  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  not  he  who  was  the  great  man,  but  she  felt 
timid  beiore  him  when  he  spoke  to  her. 

No  one  was  shy  of  Baird.  He  produced  his  inevitable 
effect  also.  In  a  few  minutes  he  had  become  the  centre 
of  the  small  company.  He  had  made  friends  with  Rupert, 
and  launched  Tom  in  conversation.  Sheba  was  listening 
to  him  with  a  brightness  of  look  charming  to  behold. 

They  sat  about  the  table  and  talked,  and  he  led  them 
all  back  to  the  mountains  which  had  been  seeming  so  far 
away.  He  wanted  to  hear  of  the  atmosphere,  the  life,  the 
people;  and  yet,  as  they  answered  his  queries  and  related 
anecdotes,  he  was  learning  from  each  one  something  bearing 
on  the  story  of  the  claim.  When  Tom  spoke  of  Barnesville 
and  Judge  Rutherford,  or  Rupert  of  Delisleville  and  Matt, 
their  conversation  was  guided  in  such  manner  that  business 
details  of  the  claim  were  part  of  what  was  said.  It  was 
Tom  who  realised  this  first  and  spoke  of  it. 

"We  are  talking  of  our  own  business  as  if  it  was  the 
one  subject  on  earth,"  he  said.  "  That's  the  worst  of  people 
with  a  claim.  I've  seen  a  good  many  of  them  since  I've 
been  in  Washington — and  we  are  all  alike." 

"  I  have  been  asking  questions  because  the  subject  inter- 
ests me,  too,"  said  Baird.  "  More  people  than  yourselves 
discuss  it.  It  formed  a  chief  topic  of  conversation  when 
I  dined  with  Senator  Milner,  two  nights  ago." 

"  Milner!  "  said  Tom.  "  He  was  the  man  who  had  not 
time  to  hear  me  in  the  morning." 

"  His  daughter,  Mrs.  Meredith,  was  inquiring  about  you. 
She  wanted  to  hear  the  story.  I  shall  tellit  to  her." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Tom;  "if  you  tell  it,  it  will  have 
a  chance." 

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In  Connection  with' 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Perhaps/'  Baird  laughed.  "  I  may  be  able  to  help  you. 
A  man  who  is  used  to  audiences  might  be  of  some  practical 
value." 

He  met  Sheba's  eyes  by  accident.  A  warm  light  leaped 
into  them. 

"  They  care  a  great  deal  more  than  they  will  admit  to 
me,"  she  said  to  him,  when  chance  left  them  together  a  few 
minutes  later,  as  Tom  and  Rupert  were  showing  Latimer 
some  books.  "  They  are  afraid  of  making  me  unhappy  by 
letting  me  know  how  serious  it  wrill  be  if  everything  is  lost. 
They  care  too  much  for  me — but  I  care  for  them,  and  if 
I  could  do  anything — or  go  to  anyone " 

He  looked  into  her  eyes  through  a  curious  moment  of 
silence. 

"  It  was  not  all  jest,"  he  said  after  it,  "  what  I  said  just 
now.  I  am  a  man  who  has  words,  and  words  sometimes  are 
of  use.  I  am  going  to  give  you  my  words — for  what  they 
are  worth." 

"  We  shall  feel  very  rich,"  she  answered,  and  her  simple 
directness  might  have  been  addressed  to  a  friend  of  years' 
standing.  It  was  a  great  charm,  this  sweet  acceptance  of 
any  kindness.  "  But  I  thought  you  were  going  away  in 
a  few  days?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  shall  come  back,  and  I  shall  try  to  set 
the  ball  rolling  before  I  go." 

She  glanced  at  Latimer  across  the  room. 

"Mr.  Latimer — "  she  hesitated;  "  do  you  think  he  does 
not  mind  that — that  the  claim  means  so  much  for  us?  I 
was  afraid.  He  looked  at  me  so  seriously " 

"  He  looked  at  you  a  great  deal,"  interposed  Baird, 
quickly.  "  He  could  not  help  it.  I  am  glad  to  have  this 
opportunity  to  tell  you — something.  You  are  very  like — 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

very  like — someone  he  loved  deeply — someone  who  died 
years  ago.  You  must  forgive  him.  It  was  almost  a  shock  to 
him  to  come  face  to  face  with  you." 

"  Ah!  "  softly.  "  Someone  who  died  years  ago!  "  She 
lifted  Margery's  eyes  and  let  them  rest  upon  Baird's  face. 
"  It  must  be  very  strange — it  must  be  almost  awful — to  find 
yourself  near  a  person  very  like  someone  you  have  loved — 
who  died  years  ago." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.    "  Yes— awful.    That  is  the  word." 

When  the  two  men  walked  home  together  through  the 
streets,  the  same  thought  was  expressed  again,  and  it  was 
Latimer  who  expressed  it. 

"  And  when  she  looked  at  me,"  he  said,  "  I  almost  cried 
out  to  her,  '  Margery,  Margery! '  The  cry  leaped  up  from 
the  depths  of  me.  I  don't  know  how  I  stopped  it.  Margery 
was  smaller  and  more  childlike — her  eyes  are  darker,  her 
face  is  her  own,  not  Margery's — but  she  looks  at  one  as 
Margery  did.  It  is  the  simple  clearness  of  her  look,  the 
sweet  belief,  which  does  not  know  life  holds  a  creature  who 
could  betray  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  broke  from  Baird.  The  exclamation  seemed 
involuntary. 

"  Yet  there  was  one  who  could  betray  it,"  Latimer  said. 

"  You  cannot  forget,"  said  Baird.    "  No  wonder." 

Latimer  shook  his  head. 

"  The  passing  of  years,"  he  said,  "  almost  inevitably  wipes 
out  or  dims  all  things;  but  sometimes — not  often,  thank 
Fate — there  comes  a  phase  of  suffering  in  some  man  or 
woman's  life  which  will  not  go.  I  once  knew  a  woman — 
she  was  the  kind  of  woman  people  envy,  and  whose  life 
seems  brilliant  and  full;  it  was  full  of  the  things  most 
people  want,  but  the  things  she  wanted  were  not  for  her, 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

and  there  was  a  black'- wound  in  her  soul.  She  had  had 
a  child  who  had  come  near  to  healing  her,  and  suddenly 
he  was  torn  out  of  her  being  by  death.  She  said  after- 
wards that  she  knew  she  had  been  mad  for  months  after 
it  happened,  though  no  one  suspected  her.  In  the  years 
that  followed  she  dared  not  allow  herself  to  speak  or  think 
of  that  time  of  death.  '  I  must  not  let  myself — I  must  not/ 
She  said  this  to  me,  and  shuddered,  clenching  her  hands 
when  she  spoke.  'Never,  never,  never,  will  it  be  better. 
If  a  thousand  years  had  passed  it  would  always  be  the  same. 
One  thought  or  word  of  it  drags  me  back — and  plunges 
me  deep  into  the  old,  awful  woe.  Old — it  is  not  old — 
it  never  can  be  old.  It  is  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday — 
as  if  it  were  happening  to-day.'  I  know  this  is  not  often 
so.  But  it  is  so  with  me  when  a  thing  drags  Margery  back 
to  me — drags  me  back  to  Margery.  To-night,  Baird;  think 
what  it  is  to-night!  " 

He  put  a  shaking  hand  on  Baird's  hand,  hurrying  him 
by  the  unconscious  rapidity  of  his  own  pace. 

"  Think  what  it  is  to-night/'  he  repeated.  "  She  seems 
part  of  my  being.  I  cannot  free  myself.  I  can  see  her 
as  she  was  when  she  last  looked  at  me,  as  her  child  looked 
at  me  to-night — with  joyful  bright  eyes  and  lips.  It  was 
one  day  when  I  went  to  see  her  at  Boston.  She  was  doing 
a  little  picture,  and  it  had  been  praised  at  the  studio.  She 
was  so  happy — so  happy.  That  was  the  last  time." 

"  Don't,  don't,"  cried  Baird;  "  you  must  not  call  it  back." 

"  I  am  not  calling  it  back.  It  comes,  it  comes!  You  must 
let  me  go  on.  You  can't  stop  me.  That  was  the  last  time. 
The  next  time  I  saw  her  she  had  changed.  I  scarcely  knew 
how — it  was  so  little.  The  brightness  was  blurred.  Then 
— then  comes  all  the  rest.  Her  growing  illness — the  anx- 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

iousness — the  long  days — the  girl  at  the  mills — the  talk 
of  those  women — the  first  ghastly,  damnable  fear — the 
nights — the  lying  awake!  "  His  breath  came  short  and  fast. 
He  could  not  stop  himself,,  it  was  plain.  His  words  tumbled 
over  each  other  as  if  he  were  a  man  telling  a  story  in  de- 
lirium. 

"  I  can  see  her,"  he  said.  "  I  can  see  her — as  I  went  into 
her  room.  I  can  see  her  shaking  hands  and  lips  and  childish, 
terrified  eyes.  I  can  feel  her  convulsive  little  fingers  clutch- 
ing my  feet,  and  her  face — her  face — lying  upon  them  when 
she  fell  down." 

"  I  cannot  bear  it,"  cried  Baird;  "  I  cannot  bear  it."  He 
had  uttered  the  same  cry  once  before.  He  had  received 
the  same  answer. 

"  She  bore  it,"  said  Latimer,  fiercely.  "  That  last  night 
— in  the  cabin  on  the  hillside — her  cries — they  were  not 
human — no,  they  did  not  sound  human " 

He  was  checked.  It  was  Baird's  hand  which  clutched 
his  arm  now — it  seemed  as  if  for  support.  The  man  was 
swaying  a  little,  and  in  the  light  of  a  street-lamp  near  them 
he  looked  up  in  a  ghastly  appeal. 

"  Latimer,"  he  said.  "  Don't  go  on;  you  see  I  can't  bear 
it.  I  am  not  so  strong  as  I  was — before  I  began  this  work. 
I  have  lost  my  nerve.  You  bring  it  before  me  as  it  is 
brought  before  yourself.  I  am  living  the  thing.  I  can't 
bear  it." 

Latimer  came  back  from  the  past.  He  made  an  effort 
to  understand  and  control  himself. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quite  dull;  "  that  was  what  the  woman 
I  spoke  of  told  me — that  she  lived  the  thing  again.  It  is 
not  sane  to  let  one's  self  go  back.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Baird." 


369 


CHAPTEE  XXXIV 

"  IT'S  a  curious  job,  that  De  Willoughby  claim,"  was  said 
in  a  committee-room  of  the  House,  one  day.  "  It's  begin- 
ning to  attract  attention  because  it  has  such  an  innocent  air. 
The  sharp  ones  say  that  may  be  the  worst  feature  of  it, 
because  ingenuousness  is  more  dangerous  than  anything 
else  if  a  job  is  thoroughly  rotten.  The  claimants  are  the 
most  straightforward  pair  the  place  has  ever  seen — a  big, 
humourous,  well-mannered  country  man,  and  a  boy  of 
twenty-three.  Rutherford,  of  Hamlin  County,  who  is  a 
monument  of  simplicity  in  himself,  is  heart  and  soul  in  the 
thing — and  Farquhar  feels  convinced  by  it.  Farquhar  is 
one  of  the  men  who  are  not  mixed  up  with  jobs.  Milner 
himself  is  beginning  to  give  the  matter  a  glance  now  and 
then,  though  he  has  not  committed  himself;  and  now  the 
Keverend  John  Baird,  the  hero  of  the  platform,  is  taking 
it  up." 

Baird  had  proved  his  incidental  offer  of  aid  to  have  been 
by  no  means  an  idle  one.  He  had  been  obliged  to  absent 
himself  from  Washington  for  a  period,  but  he  had  returned 
when  his  lecture  tour  had  ended,  and  had  shown  himself 
able  in  a  new  way.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  whose  con- 
versation people  wish  to  hear.  He  chose  the  right  people 
and  talked  to  them  about  the  De  Willoughby  claim.  He 
was  interesting  and  picturesque  in  connection  with  it,  and 
lent  the  topic  attractions.  Tom  had  been  shrewdly  right 
in  saying  that  his  talk  of  it  would  give  it  a  chance. 

He  went  often  to  the  house  near  the  Circle.  Latimer 
370 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

did  not  go  with  him,  and  had  himself  explained  his  reasons 
to  big  Tom. 

"  I  have  seen  her,"  he  said.    "  It  is  better  that  I  should 
not  see  her  often.    She  is  too  much  like  her  mother." 

But  Baird  seemed  to  become  by  degrees  one  of  the  house- 
hold. Gradually — and  it  did  not  take  long — Tom  and  he 
were  familiar  friends.  They  had  long  talks  together,  they 
walked  side  by  side  through  the  streets,  they  went  in  com- 
pany to  see  the  men  it  was  necessary  to  hold  interviews 
with.  Their  acquaintance  became  an  intimacy  which  estab- 
lished itself  with  curious  naturalness.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
been  men  of  the  same  blood,  who,  having  spent  their  lives 
apart,  on  meeting,  found  pleasure  in  the  discovery  of  their 
relationship.  The  truth  was  that  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  big  Tom  enjoyed  a  friendship  with  a  man  who  was 
educated  and,  in  a  measure,  of  the  world  into  which  he 
himself  had  been  born.  Baird's  world  had  been  that  of  New 
England,  his  own,  the  world  of  the  South;  but  they  could 
comprehend  each  other's  parallels  and  precedents,  and  argue 
from  somewhat  similar  planes.  In  the  Delisleville  days  Tom 
had  formed  no  intimacies,  and  had  been  a  sort  of  Colossus 
set  apart;  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina  he  had  con- 
sorted with  the  primitive  and  uneducated  in  good-humoured, 
;  even  grateful,  friendliness;  but  he  had  mentally  lived  like 
a  hermit.  To  have  talked  to  Jabe  Doty  or  Nath  Hayes 
on  any  other  subjects  than  those  of  crops  and  mountain 
politics  or  sermons  would  have  been  to  bewilder  them  hope- 
lessly. To  find  himself  in  mental  contact  with  a  man  who 
had  lived  and  thought  through  all  the  years  during  which 
he  himself  had  vegetated  at  the  Cross-roads,  was  a  wonderful 
thing  to  him.  He  realised  that  he  had  long  ago  given  up 
expecting  anything  approaching  such  companionship,  and 

371 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

that  to  indulge  in  it  was  to  live  in  a  new  world.  Baird's 
voice,  his  choice  of  words,  his  readiness  and  tact,  the  very 
carriage  of  his  fine,  silvering  head,  produced  on  him  the 
effect  of  belonging  to  a  new  species  of  human  being. 

"  You  are  all  the  things  I  have  been  missing  for  half 
a  lifetime,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  I  was 
making  up  my  mind  to  going  without — but  it  was  such 
men  as  you." 

On  his  own  part,  Baird  felt  he  had  made  a  rich  discovery 
also.  The  large  humour  and  sweetness,  the  straightforward 
unworldliness  which  was  still  level-headed  and  observing, 
the  broad  kindliness  and  belief  in  humanity  which  were 
so  far  from  unintelligent  or  injudicious,  were  more  attrac- 
tive to  him  than  any  collected  characteristics  he  had  met 
before.  They  seemed  to  meet  some  strained  needs  in  him. 
To  leave  his  own  rooms,  and  find  his  way  to  the  house  whose 
atmosphere  was  of  such  curious,  homely  brightness,  to  be 
greeted  by  Sheba's  welcoming  eyes,  to  sit  and  chat  with 
Tom  in  the  twilight  or  to  saunter  out  with  him  with  an 
arm  through  his,  were  things  he  soon  began  to  look  forward 
to.  He  began  also  to  realise  that  this  life  of  home  and  the 
affections  was  a  thing  he  had  lived  without.  During  his 
brief  and  wholly  unemotional  married  life  he  had  known 
nothing  like  it.  His  years  of  widowerhood  had  been  presided 
over  by  Mrs.  Stornaway,  who  had  assumed  the  supervision 
of  his  child  as  a  duty.  Annie  had  been  a  properly  behaved, 
rather  uninteresting  and  unresponsive  little  person.  She 
had  neat  features  and  a  realisation  of  the  importance  of  re- 
spectability  and  the  proprieties  which  was  a  credit  to  Wil- 
lowfield  and  her  training.  She  was  never  gay  or  inconse- 
quent or  young.  She  had  gone  to  school,  she  had  had  her 
frocks  lengthened  and  been  introduced  at  tea-parties,  ex- 

372 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

actly  as  had  been  planned  for  her.  She  never  committed 
a  breach  of  discretion  and  she  never  formed  in  any  degree 
an  element  of  special  interest.  She  greatly  respected  her 
father's  position  as  a  successful  man,  and  left  it  to  be 
vaguely  due  to  the  approbation  of  Willowfield. 

Big  Tom  De  Willoughby,  in  two  wooden  rooms  behind 
a  cross-roads  store,  in  a  small  frame  house  kept  in  order 
by  a  negro  woman,  and  in  the  genteel  poverty  of  Miss  Bur- 
ford's  second  floor,  had  surrounded  himself  with  the  com- 
forts and  pleasures  of  the  affections.  It  was  not  possible 
to  enter  the  place  without  feeling  their  warmth,  and  Baird 
found  himself  nourished  by  it.  He  saw  that  Eupert,  too, 
was  nourished  by  it.  His  young  good  looks  and  manhood 
were  developing  under  its  influence  day  by  day.  He  seemed 
to  grow  taller  and  stronger.  Baird  had  made  friends  with 
him,  too,  and  was  with  them  the  night  he  came  in  to  an- 
nounce that  at  last  he  had  got  work  to  do. 

"  It  is  to  sell  things  from  behind  a  counter,"  he  said, 
and  he  went  to  Sheba  and  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  kissing 
it  before  them  all.  "  We  know  a  better  man  who  has  done 
it." 

"  You  know  a  bigger  man  who  has  done  it,"  said  Tom. 
"  He  did  it  because  he  was  cut  out  for  a  failure.  You  are 
doing  it  because  you  are  cut  out  for  a  success.  It  will  be 
a  good  story  for  the  reporters  when  the  claim  goes  through, 
my  boy." 

Baird  perceived  at  once  that  it  was  a  good  story,  even 
at  this  particular  period — a  story  which  might  be  likely  to 
arouse  curiosity  and  interest  at  a  time  when  the  Awakening 
of  such  emotions  was  of  the  greatest  value.  He  told  it  at 
the  house  of  a  magnate  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  next 
night.  He  had  a  varied  and  useful  audience  of  important 

373 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

politicians  and  their  wives  and  daughters,  the  latter  spe- 
cially fitted  to  act  as  mediums  of  transmission  to  other  audi- 
ences. He  told  the  anecdote  well.  It  was  a  good  picture, 
that  of  the  room  on  Miss  Burford's  upper  floor,  the  large 
claimant  smiling  like  a  henign  Jove,  and  the  handsome 
youngster  "bending  his  head  to  kiss  the  girlish  hand  as  if 
he  were  doing  homage  to  a  queen. 

"  I  think  his  feeling  was  that  his  failure  to  get  a  better 
thing  was  a  kind  of  indignity  done  her,"  Baird  explained. 
"  He  comes  of  a  race  of  men  who  have  worshipped  women 
and  beauty  in  a  romantic,  troubadour  fashion;  only  the 
higher  professions,  and  those  treated  in  a  patrician,  amateur 
style,  were  possible  to  them  as  work.  And  yet,  as  he  said, 
a  better  man  than  himself  had  done  this  same  thing.  What 
moves  one  is  that  he  has  gone  out  to  find  work  as  if  he  had 
been  born  a  bricklayer.  He  tells  me  they  are  reaching  the 
end  of  all  they  depend  on." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Senator  Milner  to  his  daugh- 
ter, a  few  days  afterwards;  "  this  is  going  to  be  a  feminine 
claim.  There  was  a  time  when  I  swore  I  wouldn't  touch  it, 
but  I  foresee  what  is  going  to  happen.  I'm  going  to  give 
in,  and  the  other  opposers  are  going  to  give  in,  and  in  the 
end  the  Government  will  give  in.  And  it  will  be  principally 
because  a  force  of  wives  and  daughters  has  marshalled  itself 
to  march  to  the  rescue.  No  one  ever  realises  what  a  power 
the  American  woman  is,  and  how  much  she  is  equal  to  ac- 
complishing. If  she  took  as  much  interest  in  politics  as 
English  women  do,  she  would  elect  every  president  and 
control  every  party.  We  are  a  good-natured  lot,  and  we 
are  fond  of  our  womenkind  and  believe  in  them  much  more 
than  other  nations  do.  They're  pretty  clever  and  straight, 
you  know,  as  well  as  being  attractive,  and  we  can't  help) 

374 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

realising  that  they  are  often  worth  listening  to.  So*  we 
listen,  and  when  they  drive  a  truth  home  we  are  willing 
to  believe  in  it.  If  the  feminine  halves  of  the  two  Houses 
decide  that  the  De  Willoughby  claim  is  all  right,  they'll 
prove  it  to  us,  and  there  you  are." 

"  I  believe  we  can  prove  it  to  you,"  answered  Mrs.  Mere- 
dith. "  I  went  to  see  the  people,  and  you  could  prove 
anything  straightforward  by  merely  showing  them  to  the 
Houses  in  session.  They  could  not  conceal  a  disingenuous 
thought  among  them — the  delightful  giant,  the  boy  with 
the  eyelashes,  the  radiant  girl,  and  the  old  black  man  put 
together." 

In  the  meantime  Judge  Rutherford  did  his  honest  best. 
He  had  been  too  sanguine  not  to  do  it  with  some  ruefulness 
after  the  first  few  months.  During  the  passage  of  these  few 
months  many  of  his  ingenuous  ideals  had  been  overthrown. 
It  had  been  borne  in  upon  him  that  honest  virtue  was  not 
so  powerful  a  factor  as  he  had  believed.  The  obstacles  con- 
tinually arising  in  his  pathway  were  not  such  as  honest 
virtue  could  remove.  The  facts  that  the  claim  was  "as 
straight  as  a  string,"  and  that  big  Tom  De  Willoughby  was 
the  best  fellow  in  Hamlin  were  bewilderingly  ineffective. 
When  prospects  seemed  to  shine  they  might  be  suddenly 
overshadowed  by  the  fact  that  a  man  whose  influence  was 
needed,  required  it  to  use  for  himself  in  other  quarters; 
when  all  promised  well  some  apparently  unexplainable 
obstacle  brought  things  to  a  standstill. 

"  Now  you  see  it  and  now  you  don't,"  said  Tom,  re- 
signedly. "  That's  the  position.  This  sort  of  thing  might 
go  on  for  twenty  years." 

He  was  not  aware  that  he  spoke  prophetically;  yet  claims 
resting  on  as  solid  a  basis  as  his  own  passed  through  the 

375 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

same  dragging  processes  for  thirty  years  before  they  were 
finally  settled.  But  such  did  not  possess  the  elements  of 
unprofessional  picturesqueness  this  particular  one  pre- 
sented told  to  its  upholders  and  opposers. 

Uncle  Matt  himself  was  to  be  counted  among  these  ele- 
ments. He  had  made  himself  as  familiar  and  popular  a 
figure  in  the  public  places  of  the  Capital  as  he  had  been 
in  Delisleville.  He  made  friends  in  the  market-house  and 
on  the  steps  of  the  Capitol  and  the  Treasury  and  the  Pension 
Office;  he  hung  about  official  buildings  and  obtained  odd 
jobs  of  work,  his  grey  wool,  his  polished  air  of  respectfulness, 
his  readiness  and  amiability  attracted  attention  and  pleased 
those  who  came  in  contact  with  him.  People  talked  to  him 
and  asked  him  friendly  questions,  and  when  they  did  so 
the  reason  for  his  presence  in  Washington  and  the  impor- 
tance of  the  matter  which  had  brought  his  young  master 
to  the  seat  of  government  were  fully  explained. 

"  I  belongs  to  de  gen'elmen  dat's  here  tendin'  to  de  De 
Willoughby  claim,  sah,"  he  would  say.  "  Co'se,  sah,  you've 
heern  'bout  it  up  to  de  Capitol.  I'se  yere  waitin'  on  Marse 
Rupert  De  Willoughby,  but  co'se  he  don'  live  yere — till 
ye  gets  his  claim  through — like  he  do  in  de  ole  family 
mansh'n  at  Delisleville — an'  my  time  hangs  heavy  on  my 
han's,  cos  I  got  so  much  ledger — so  I  comes  out  like  dish 
yer — an'  takes  a  odd  job  now  an'  agen." 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was  known  as  the  De  Wil- 
loughby claimant,  and  loiterers  were  fond  of  drawing  him 
out  on  the  subject  of  the  "  gol'  mines."  He  gathered  a 
large  amount  of  information  on  the  subjects  of  claims  and 
the  rapid  methods  of  working  them.  He  used  to  come  to 
Tom  sometimes,  hot  and  excited  with  his  struggles  to  com- 

376 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

prehend  detail.  "  What  all  dish  yer  'bout  Marse  Rupert's 
granpa'n'  bein'  destructively  disloyal?  Dar  warn't  no  dis- 
loyal 'bout  it.  Ef  dar  was  a  fault  to  be  foun'  with  the  old 
Judge  it  was  dat  he  was  mos'  too  loyal.  He  couldn'  hoF 
in,  an'  he  qu'ol  with  mos'  ev'y  gen'elman  he  talk  to.  He 
pass  shots  with  one  or  two  he  had  a  disagreement  with. 
He  pass  shots  with  'em.  How's  de  Guv'ment  gwine  call 
a  gen'elman  '  destructively  disloyal '  when  he  ready  any 
minit  to  pass  shots  with  his  bes'  fren's,  ef  dey  don'  'gree 
with  his  pol'tics — an'  his  politics  is  on  de  side  er  Marse 
Ab'am  Lincoln  an'  de  Yankees?" 

The  phrase  "  constructively  disloyal  "  rankled  in  his  soul. 
He  argued  about  it  upon  every  possible  occasion,  and  felt 
that  if  the  accusation  could  be  disproved  the  De  Willoughby 
case  would  be  triumphantly  concluded,  which  was  in  a  large 
measure  true. 

"I  steddies  'bout  dat  thing  day  an'  night,"  he  said  to 
Sheba.  "  Seems  like  dar  oughter  be  someone  to  tes'ify.  Ef 
I  had  de  money  to  travel  back  to  Delisleville,  I'd  go  an? 
try  to  hunt  someone  up." 

He  was  seated  upon  the  steps  of  a  Government  building 
one  afternoon,  discussing  his  favourite  subject  with  some 
of  his  coloured  friends.  He  had  been  unusually  eloquent, 
and  had  worked  himself  up  to  a  peroration,  when  he  sud- 
denly ceased  speaking  and  stared  straight  across  the  street 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  pavement,  in  such  absorption  that 
he  forgot  to  close  his  mouth. 

He  was  gazing  at  an  elderly  gentleman  with  a  hook  nose 
and  the  dashing  hat  of  the  broad  brim,  which  was  regarded 
as  being  almost  as  much  an  insignia  of  the  South  as  the 
bonnie  blue  flag  itself. 

Uncle  Matt  got  up  and  shuffled  across  the  street.  He 

377 


In   Connection  with 

The   De  Willoughby  Claim 

had  become  unconsciously  apish  with  excitement.  His  old 
black  face  worked  and  his  hands  twitched. 

He  was  so  far  out  of  breath  when  he  reached  the  stran- 
ger's side  that  he  could  scarcely  make  himself  heard,  as,  pull- 
ing his  hat  off,  he  cried,  agitatedly: 

"  Doctah!  Doctah  Atkinson,  sah!  Doctah  "Williams  At- 
kinson! " 

The  stranger  did  not  hear  him  distinctly,  and  waved  him 
off,  evidently  taking  him  for  a  beggar. 

"  I've  nothing  for  you,  uncle,"  he  said,  with  condescend- 
ing good-nature. 

Uncle  Matt  found  some  of  his  breath,  though  not  enough 
to  steady  his  voice.  But  his  strenuousness  was  almost  pas- 
sionate. "  Doctah  Williams  Atkinson,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't 
beggin',  Doctah  Atkinson,  sah;  on'y  axin'  if  I  might  speak 
a  few  words  to  you,  sah! "  His  shrewd  insistance  on  the 
name  was  effective. 

The  elderly  gentleman  turned  and  looked  at  him  in  sur- 
prised questioning. 

"How  do  you  know  me?"  he  said.  "This  is  the  first 
time  I  have  been  in  Washington — and  I've  not  been  here 
an  hour." 

"  I  knowed  you,  Doctah  Atkinson,  sah,  in  Delisleville, 
Delisle  County.  Ev'ybody  knowed  you,  Doctah!  I  was 
dar  endurin'  er  de  war.  I  was  dar  de  time  you — you  an' 
Judge  De  Willoughby  passed  shots  'bout  dat  Confed'ate 
flag." 

"What  do  you  want?  "  said  Dr.  Atkinson,  somewhat  un- 
smilingly.  These  were  days  when  stories  of  the  Confederate 
flag  were  generally  avoided.  Northerners  called  it  the  rebel 
flag. 

Matt  had  had  the  discretion  to  avoid  this  mistake.  He 
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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

was  wild  with  anxious  excitement.  Suddenly  here  had  ap- 
peared a  man  who  could  give  all  the  evidence  desired,  if  he 
would  do  so.  He  had  left  Delisleville  immediately  on  the 
close  of  the  war  and  had  not  been  heard  of.  He  might,  like 
so  many,  be  passing  on  to  some  unknown  point,  and  remain 
in  the  city  only  between  trains.  There  was  no  time  to  find 
any  better  qualified  person  than  himself  to  attend  to  this 
matter.  It  must  be  attended  to  upon  the  spot  and  at  this 
moment.  Uncle  Matt  knew  all  the  incongruities  of  the 
situation.  No  one  could  have  known  them  better.  But 
a  sort  of  hysteric  courage  grew  out  of  his  desperation. 

"Doctah  Williams  Atkinson,  sah! "  he  said.  "May  I 
take  de  liberty  of  walking  jes'  behin'  you  an'  axin'  you  a 
question.  I  mustn't  keep  you  standin'.  I  beg  you  to 'scuse 
me,  sah.  I  kin  talk  an'  walk  at  de  same  time." 

Dr.  Williams  Atkinson  was  an  amenable  person,  and 
Matt's  imploring  old  darky  countenance  was  not  without  its 
pathos.  He  was  so  evidently  racked  by  his  emotions. 

"  What  is  it  all  about  ?  "  he  enquired. 

Matt  stood  uncovered  and  spoke  fast.  The  hand  holding 
his  hat  was  shaking,  as  also  was  his  voice. 

"  I'm  nothin'  but  a  ole  niggah  man,  Doctah  Atkinson, 
sah,"  he  said.  "It  ain't  for  myself  I'se  intrudin'  on  ye; 
it's  cos  dar  wasn't  time  to  go  fer  Marse  De  Willoughby 
that  could  talk  it  like  it  oughter  be.  I  jes'  had  to  push 
my  ole  niggah  self  in,  fear  you'd  be  gone  an'  we'd  nevah 
set  eyes  on  you  agin." 

"  Walk  along  by  me,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  What  about  the 
De  Willoughbys;  I  thought  they  were  all  dead." 

"  All  but  Marse  Thomas  and  Marse  Eupert.  Dey's  yere 
'tendin'  to  de  claim.  Has  you  done  heern  'bout  de  claim, 
Doctah  Atkinson?" 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  No,"  the  Doctor  answered.  "  I  have  been  in  too  far 
out  West." 

Whereupon  Matt  plunged  into  the  story  of  the  "go? 
j  mines/'  and  the  difficulties  which  had  presented  themselves 
'  in  the  pathway  of  the  claimant,  and  the  necessity  for  the 
production  of  testimony  which  would  disprove  the  charge 
of  disloyalty.    The  detail  was  not  very  clear,  but  it  had  the 
effect  of  carrying  Dr.  Williams  Atkinson  back  to  certain 
good  old  days  in  Delisleville,  before  his  beloved  South  had 
been  laid  low  and  he  had  been  driven  far  afield  to  live 
among  strangers,  an  alien.    For  that  reason  he  found  him- 
self moved  by  the  recital  and  listened  to  it  to  its  end. 

u  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  me?  "  he  asked.  "  What 
do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  When  I  seed  you,  sah,"  Uncle  Matt  explained,  "  it  all 
come  back  to  me  in  a  minnit,  how  you  an'  de  Judge  pass 
shots  'bout  dat  flag;  how  you  axed  him  to  a  dinner-party, 
an'  dar  was  a  Confed'ate  officer  dar — an'  a  Confed'ate  flag 
hung  up  over  de  table,  an'  de  Judge  when  he  seed  it  he 
'fused  p'int  blank  to  set  down  to  de  table,  an'  it  ended 
in  you  goin'  out  in  de  gyardin'  an'  changin'  shots." 

"  Yes,  damn  it  all,"  cried  Dr.  Atkinson,  but  melted  the 
next  moment.  "  The  poor  old  fellow  is  dead,"  he  said,  "  an' 
he  died  in  disgrace  and  without  friends." 

"  Yes,"  Uncle  Matt  protested,  eagerly;  "  without  a  single 
friend,  an'  all  'lone  'ceptin'  of  Marse  Rupert — all  'lone. 
An'  it  was  'cos  he  was  so  strong  for  de  Union — an'  now 
de  Guv'ment  won't  let  his  fambly  have  his  money  'cos  dey's 
tryin'  to  prove  him  destructively  disloyal — when  he  changed 
shots  with  his  bes'  friend  'cos  he  wouldn't  set  under  de 
Confed'ate  flag." 

A  grim  smile  wakened  in  Dr.  Atkinson's  face. 
380 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"What! "  he  said;  "do  you  want  me  to  explain  to  the 
Government  that  the  old  scamp  would  have  blown  my  brains 
out  if  he  could?" 

"  Doctah  Atkinson,  sah,"  said  Uncle  Matt,  with  shrewd 
gravitjf,  "  things  is  different  dese  days,  an'  de  Guv'ment  don't 
call  dem  gen'elmen  scamps  as  was  called  dat  in  de  Souf." 

He  looked  up  under  the  broad  brim  of  his  companion's 
hat  with  impassioned  appealing. 

"  I  jes'  'member  one  thing,  sah,"  he  said;  "  dat  you  was 
a  Southern  gen'elman,  and  when  a  enemy's  dead  a  Southern 
gen'elman  don't  cherish  no  harm  agin  him,  an'  you  straight 
from  Delisleville,  an'  you  deed  an'  heerd  it  all,  an'  de  Guv'- 
ment  ken  see  plain  enough  you's  no  carpet-bag  jobber,  an* 
ef  a  gen'elman  like  you  tes'ify,  an'  say  you  was  enemies — 
an'  you  did  pass  shots  count  er  dat  flag,  how's  dey  gwine 
talk  any  more  about  dis  destructive  disloyal  business?  How 
dey  gwine  ter  do  it?" 

"  And  I  am  to  be  the  means  of  enriching  his  family — 
the  family  of  an  obstinate  old  fool,  who  abused  me  like 
a  pickpocket  and  spoiled  a  dress-coat  for  me  when  dress- 
coats  were  scarce." 

"  He's  dead,  Doctah  Williams  Atkinson,  sah,  he's  dead,J> 
said  Matt.  "  It  was  mighty  lonesome  the  way  he  died,  too, 
in  dat  big  house,  dat  was  stripped  by  de  soldiers,  an'  ev'y- 
body  dead  belonging  to  him — Miss  De  Willoughby,  an'  de 
young  ladies,  an'  Marse  Romaine,  an'  Marse  De  Courcy — 
no  one  lef  but  dat  boy.  It  was  mighty  lonesome,  sah." 

"  Yes,  that's  so,"  said  Dr.  Atkinson,  reflectively.  After 
a  few  moments'  silence,  he  added,  "  Whom  do  you  want 
me  to  tell  this  to?  It  may  be  very  little  use,  but  it  may 
serve  as  evidence." 

Uncle  Matt  stopped  upon  the  pavement. 

381 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Would  you  let  me;.'seort  you  to  Senator  Milner,  sah?" 
he  said,  in  absolute  terror  at  his  own  daring.  "  Would  you 
'low  me  to  'tend  you  to  Senator  Grove?  I  knows  what  a 
favior  Fse  axin'.  I  knows  it  doun  to  de  groun'.  I  scarcely 
dars't  to  ax  it,  but  if  I  loses  you,  sah,  Marse  Thomas  De 
Willoughby  an'  Marse  Rupert  may  lose  de  claim.  Ef  I  lose 
you,  sah,  seems  mos'  like  I  gwine  to  lose  my  mind." 

There  were  a  thousand  chances  to  one  that  Senator  Mil- 
ner might  not  be  where  Uncle  Matt  hoped  to  find  him; 
there  were  ten  thousand  chances  to  one  that  he  might  be 
absorbingly  engaged;  there  were  uncountable  chances 
against  them  obtaining  an  interview  with  either  man,  and 
yet  it  so  happened  they  had  the  curious  good  luck  to  come 
upon  Senator  Milner  absolutely  without  searching  for  him. 
It  was  rather  he  who  came  upon  them  at  one  of  the  entrances 
of  the  Capitol  itself,  before  which  stood  his  daughter's  car- 
riage. Mrs.  Meredith  had  spent  the  morning  in  the  Senate, 
being  interested  in  the  subject  under  debate.  She  was  going 
to  take  her  father  home  to  lunch,  and  as  she  was  about  to 
enter  her  carriage  her  glance  fell  upon  the  approaching  fig- 
ures of  Uncle  Matt  and  his  companion. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  there  is  the  faithful  retainer  of 
the  De  Willoughby  claimants,  and  there  is  not  a  shadow  of 
a  doubt  that  he  is  in  search  of  you.  I  am  convinced  that 
he  wishes  to  present  that  tall  Southerner  under  the  big  hat." 

In  a  moment's  space  Uncle  Matt  was  before  them.  The 
deprecatory  respect  implied  by  his  genuflections  could 
scarcely  be  computed. 

"  Senator  Milner,  sah,"  he  said,  "  Doctah  Williams  At- 
kinson of  Delisleville  has  had  de  kindness  to  say  he  do  me 
de  favior  to  come  yeah,  sah,  to  tes'ify,  sah " 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

The  large  hat  was  removed  by  its  owner  with  a  fine  sweep. 
"  The  old  fellow  thinks  I  can  do  his  people  a  service,  Sen- 
ator," explained  Dr.  Atkinson.  "  He  is  the  servant  of  the 
De  Willoughby  claimants,  and  it  seems  there  has  been  some 
question  of  Judge  De  Willoughby's  loyalty.  During  the 
war,  sir,  he  was  called  disloyal  by  his  neighbours,  and  was 
a  much  hated  man." 

Uncle  Matt's  lips  were  trembling.  He  broke  forth,  for- 
getting the  careful  training  of  his  youth. 

"  Dar  wasn't  a  gen'elman  in  de  county,"  he  cried,  "  dar 
wasn't  a  gen'elman  in  de  State,  mo'  hated  an'  'spised  an' 
mo'  looked  down  on." 

The  lean  Southerner  nodded  acquiescently.  "  That's 
true,"  he  said.  "  It's  quite  true.  He  was  a  copperhead  and 
a  firebrand.  We  detested  him.  He  insulted  me  at  my  own 
table  by  refusing  to  sit  down  under  the  Southern  flag,  and 
the  matter  ended  with  pistols." 

"  This  is  interesting,  by  Jove,"  said  the  Senator,  and  he 
looked  from  Uncle  Matt  to  his  capture.  "  I  should  like 
to  hear  more  of  it." 

"  Will  you  confer  a  pleasure  on  me  by  coming  home  to 
lunch  with  us?"  said  Mrs.  Meredith,  who  had  begun  to 
look  radiant.  "  I  am  interested  in  the  De  Willoughby  claim; 
I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  see  my  father  entirely  con- 
vinced. He  has  been  on  the  verge  of  conviction  for  some 
time.  I  want  him  to  hear  the  story  with  all  the  details. 
I  beg  you  will  let  us  take  you  home  with  us,  Dr.  Atkinson." 

"  Madame,"  replied  Dr.  Williams  Atkinson,  with  an 
eighteenth  century  obeisance,  "  Judge  De  Willoughby  and 
I  lived  in  open  feud,  but  I  am  becoming  interested  in  the 
De  Willoughby  claim  also.  I  accept  your  invitation  with 
pleasure."  And  they  drove  away  together. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

"  THERE  is  a  man  who  seems  to  have  begun  to  haunt 
my  pathway,"  Baird  said  to  Tom;  "  or  perhaps  it  is  Lati- 
mer's  pathway,  for  it  is  when  Latimer  is  with  me  that  I 
meet  him.  He  is  small  and  sharp-featured  and  unwhole- 
some." 

"  It  sounds  like  Stamps,"  laughed  big  Tom. 

He  related  the  story  of  Stamps  and  his  herds.  The  herds 
had  not  gained  the  congressional  ear  as  Mr.  Stamps  had 
hoped.  He  had  described  their  value  and  the  gravity  of 
his  loss  to  everyone  who  would  listen  to  his  eloquence,  but 
the  result  had  been  painfully  discouraging.  His  boarding- 
house  had  become  a  cheaper  one  week  by  week,  and  his  blue 
jeans  had  grown  shabbier.  He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
hanging  about  the  entrances  of  public  buildings  and  the 
street  corners  in  the  hope  of  finding  hearers  and  sympa- 
thisers. His  sharp  little  face  had  become  haggard  and  more 
weasel-like  than  before.  Baird  recognised  big  Tom's  de- 
scription of  him  at  once. 

"  Yes,  it  must  be  Stamps,"  he  said.  "  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  his  interest  in  us?  Does  he  think  we  can  provide 
evidence  to  prove  the  value  of  the  herds?  What  are  you 
thinking  of,  De  Willoughby?" 

In  fact,  there  had  suddenly  recurred  to  Tom's  mind  a 
recollection  of  Sheba's  fifth  birthday  and  the  visit  Mr. 
Stamps  had  made  him.  With  something  of  a  shock  he  re- 
called the  shrewd  meekness  of  his  voice  as  he  made  his 
exit. 

884 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  It  begins  with  a  '  L,'  Tom;  it  begins  with  a  '  L.'  " 

The  need  of  money  was  merely  the  natural  expression 
of  Mr.  Stamps's  nature.  He  had  needed  money  when  he  was 
born,  and  had  laid  infant  schemes  to  secure  cents  from  his 
relatives  and  their  neighbours  before  he  was  four  years  old. 
But  he  had  never  needed  it  as  he  did  now.  The  claim  for 
governmental  restitution  of  the  value  of  the  daily  increasing 
herds  had  become  the  centre  of  his  being.  His  belief  in 
their  existence  and  destruction  was  in  these  days  profound; 
his  belief  that  he  should  finally  be  remunerated  in  the  name 
and  by  the  hand  of  national  justice  was  the  breath  of  life 
to  him.  He  had  at  last  found  a  claim  agent  whose  charac- 
teristics were  similar  to  his  own,  and,  so  long  as  he  was  able 
to  supply  small  sums  with  regularity,  this  gentleman  was 
willing  to  encourage  him  and  direct  him  to  fresh  effort. 
Mr.  Abner  Linthicum,  of  Vermont,  had  enjoyed  several 
successes  in  connection  with  two  or  three  singular  claims 
which  he  had  "  put  through  "  with  the  aid  of  genius  com- 
bined with  a  peculiar  order  of  executive  ability.  They  had 
not  been  large  claims,  but  he  had  "  put  them  through  " 
when  other  agents  had  declined  to  touch  them.  In  fact, 
each  one  had  been  a  claim  which  had  been  fought  shy  of, 
and  one  whose  final  settlement  had  been  commented  upon 
with  open  derision  or  raised  eyebrows. 

"  Yours  is  the  kind  of  claim  I  like  to  take  up,"  he  had 
said  to  his  client  in  their  first  interview;  "  but  it's  the 
kind  that's  got  to  be  engineered  carefully,  and  money  is 
needed  to  grease  the  wheels.  But  it'll  pay  to  grease  them." 

It  had  needed  money.  Stamps  had  no  large  sums  to  give, 
but  he  could  be  bled  by  drops.  He  had  changed  his  cheap 
boarding-place  for  a  cheaper  one,  that  he  might  be  able  to 
gave  a  few  dollars  a  week;  he  had  left  the  cheaper  one  for 

m 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

one  cheaper  still  for  the  same  reason,  and  had  at  last  camped 
in  a  bare  room  over  a  store,  and  lived  on  shreds  of  food  cost- 
ing a  few  cents  a  day,  that  he  might  still  grease  the  wheels. 
Abner  Linthicnm  was  hard  upon  him,  and  was  not  in  the 
least  touched  by  seeing  his  meagre  little  face  grow  sharper 
and  his  garments  hang  looser  upon  his  small  frame. 

"  You'll  fat  on  the  herds,"  he  would  say,  with  practical 
jocularity,  and  Mr.  Stamps  grinned  feebly,  his  thin  lips 
stretching  themselves  over  hungry  teeth.  . 

The  little  man  burned  with  the  fever  of  his  chase.  He 
sat  in  his  bare  room  on  the  edge  of  his  mattress — having 
neither  bedstead  nor  chairs  nor  tables — and  his  fingers 
clutched  each  other  as  he  worked  out  plans  and  invented 
arguments  likely  to  be  convincing  to  an  ungrateful  Gov- 
ernment. He  used  to  grow  hot  and  cold  over  them. 

"  Ef  Tom  ?d  hev  gone  in  with  me  an'  helped  me  to  work 
out  that  thar  thing  about  Sheby,  we  mought  hev  made 
suthin'  as  would  hev  carried  me  through  this,"  he  said  to 
himself  more  than  once.  He  owed  Tom  a  bitter  grudge 
in  a  mild  way.  His  bitterness  was  the  bitterness  of  a  little 
rat  baulked  of  cheese. 

He  had  kept  safely  what  he  had  found  in  the  deserted 
cabin,  but,  as  the  years  passed,  he  lost  something  of  the 
hopes  he  had  at  first  cherished.  When  he  had  seen  Sheba 
growing  into  a  tall  beauty  he  had  calculated  that  her  market 
value  was  increasing.  A  hardsome  young  woman  who  might 
marry  well,  might  be  willing  to  pay  something  to  keep  a 
secret  quiet — if  any  practical  person  knew  the  secret  and 
it  was  unpleasant.  Well-to-do  husbands  did  not  want  -to 
hear  their  wives  talked  about.  When  Rupert  De  Wil- 
loughby had  arrived,  Mr.  Stamps  had  had  a  moment  of  dis- 
couragement. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  He's  gwire  to  fall  in  love  with  her,"  he  said,  "  but  he'd 
oughter  bin  wealthier.  Ef  the  De  Willoughbys  was  what 
they'd  usedter  be  he'd  be  the  very  feller  as  'ud  pay  for 
things  to  be  kept  quiet.  The  De  Willoughbys  was  allers 
proud  an'  'ristycratic,  an'  mighty  high-falutin'  'bout  their 
women  folk." 

When  the  subject  of  the  De  Willoughby  claim  was 
broached  he  fell  into  feverish  excitement.  The  De  Wil- 
loughbys had  a  chance  in  a  hundred  of  becoming  richer 
than  they  had  ever  been.  He  took  his  treasure  from  its 
hiding-place — sat  turning  it  over,  gnawing  his  finger-nails 
and  breathing  fast.  But  treasure  though  he  counted  it,  he 
gained  no  clue  from  it  but  the  one  he  had  spoken  of  to 
Tom  when  he  had  cast  his  farewell  remark  to  him  as  he 
closed  the  door. 

"  Ef  there'd  hev  been  more,"  he  said.  "  A  name  ain't 
much  when  there  ain't  nothin'  to  tack  on  to  it.  It  was 
curi's  enough,  but  it'd  hev  to  be  follered  up  an'  found  out. 
Ef  he  was  only  what  he  'lowed  to  be — 'tain't  nothin'  to 
hide  that  a  man's  wife  dies  an'  leaves  a  child.  I  don't 
b'lieve  thar  wasn't  nothin'  to  hide — but  it'd  hev  to  be  proved 
— an'  proved  plain.  It's  mighty  aggravatin'." 

One  night,  seeing  a  crowd  pouring  into  a  hall  where  a 
lecture  was  to  be  delivered,  he  had  lingered  about  the  en- 
trance until  the  carriage  containing  the  lecturer  drove  up. 
Here  was  something  to  be  had  for  nothing,  at  all  events — 
he  could  have  a  look  at  the  man  who  was  making  such  a  name 
for  himself.  There  must  be  something  in  a  man  who  could 
demand  so  much  a  night  for  talking  to  people.  He  managed 
to  get  a  place  well  to  the  front  of  the  loitering  crowd  on 
the  pavement. 

The  carriage-door  was  opened  and  a  man  got  out, 

387 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  That  ain't  him/'  said  a  bystander.  "  That's  Latimer. 
He's  always  with  him." 

The  lecturer  descended  immediately  after  his  companion, 
but  Stamps,  who  was  pushing  past  a  man  who  had  got  in 
front  of  him,  was  displaying  this  eagerness,  not  that 
he  might  see  the  hero  of  the  hour,  but  that  he  might 
look  squarely  at  the  friend  who  had  slightly  turned  his 
face. 

"  Gosh ! "  ejaculated  the  little  hoosier,  a  minute  later. 
"  I'd  most  swear  to  him." 

He  was  exasperatedly  conscious  that  he  could  not  quite 
have  sworn  to  him.  The  man  he  had  seen  nineteen  years 
before  had  been  dressed  in  clumsily  made  homespun;  he 
had  worn  his  black  hair  long  and  his  beard  had  been  un- 
shaven. Nineteen  years  were  nineteen  years,  and  the  garb 
and  bearing  of  civilisation  would  make  a  baffling  change  in 
any  man  previously  seen  attired  in  homespun,  and  carrying 
himself  as  an  unsociable  hoosier. 

"But  I'd  most  sw'ar  to  him — most."  Stamps  went 
through  the  streets  muttering,  "I'd  most  swar!" 

It  was  but  a  few  days  later  that  Latimer  saw  him  standing 
on  a  street  corner  staring  at  him  as  he  himself  approached. 
It  was  his  curious  intentness  which  attracted  Latimer.  He 
did  not  recognise  his  face.  He  had  not  seen  him  more  than 
once  in  the  days  so  long  gone  by,  and  had  then  cast  a  mere 
abstracted  glance  at  him.  He  did  not  know  him  again — 
though  his  garments  vaguely  recalled  months  when  he  had 
only  seen  men  clothed  in  jeans  of  blue,  or  copperas  brown. 
He  saw  him  again  the  next  day,  and  again  the  next,  and 
after  that  he  seemed  to  chance  upon  him  so  often  that  he 
could  not  help  observing  and  reflecting  upon  the  eager  scru- 
tiny in  his  wrinkled  countenance. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  ?  "  he  remarked  to  Baird.  "  I  come 
upon  him  everywhere.  Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  No.  I  thought  it  possible  you  did — or  that  he  recog- 
nised one  of  us — or  wanted  to  ask  some  question." 

After  his  conversation  with  big  Tom  De  Willoughby, 
Latimer  heard  from  Baird  the  story  of  the  herds  and  their 
indefatigable  claimant. 

"He  comes  from  the  Cross-roads?"  said  Latimer.  "I 
don't  remember  his  face." 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Baird,  rather  slowly,  "  that  he 
thinks  he  remembers  yours?" 

A  week  passed  before  Latimer  encountered  him  again. 
On  this  occasion  he  was  alone.  Baird  had  gone  South  to 
Delisleville  in  the  interests  of  the  claim.  He  had  unex- 
pectedly heard  rumours  of  some  valuable  evidence  which 
might  be  gathered  in  a  special  quarter  at  this  particular 
moment,  and  had  set  out  upon  the  journey  at  a  few  hours' 
notice. 

Stamps  had  passed  two  days  and  nights  in  torment.  He 
had  learned  from  Mr.  Linthicum  that  his  claim  had  reached 
one  of  the  critical  points  all  claims  must  pass.  More  money 
was  needed  to  grease  the  wheels  that  they  might  carry  it 
past  the  crisis  safely.  Stamps  had  been  starving  himself  for 
days  and  had  gone  without  fire  for  weeks,  but  the  wheels 
had  refused  to  budge  for  the  sum  he  managed  to  produce. 
He  was  weak,  and  so  feverish  with  anxiety  and  hunger 
that  his  lips  were  cracked  and  his  tongue  dry  to  rasping. 

"  It's  all  I  kin  scrape,  Linthicum,"  he  said  to  that  gentle- 
man. "  I  kin  get  a  few  dollars  more  if  Minty  kin  sell  her 
crop  o'  corn  an'  send  me  the  money — but  this  is  every  cent 
I  kin  give  ye  now.  Won't  i^do  nothin'f  " 

"  No,  it  won't,"  answered  the  claim  agent,  with  a  final 

389 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

sort  of  shrug.  "We're  dealing  with  a  business  that's  got 
to  be  handled  well  or  it'll  all  end  in  smoke.  /  can't  work 
on  the  driblets  you've  been  bringing  me — and,  what's  more, 
I  should  be  a  fool  to  try." 

"  But  ye  wouldn't  give  it  up!  "  cried  Stamps,  in  a  panic. 
"  Ye  couldn't  throw  me  over,  Linthicum!  " 

"  There's  no  throwing  over  about  it,"  Linthicum  said. 
"  I  shall  have  to  give  the  thing  up  if  I  can't  keep  it  going. 
Money's  got  to  be  used  over  a  claim  like  this.  I  have  had 
to  ask  men  for  a  thousand  dollars  at  a  time — and  the  thing 
they  were  working  was  easier  to  be  done  than  this  is." 

"  A  thousand  dollars!  "  cried  Stamps.  He  grew  livid  and 
a  lump  worked  in  his  throat,  as  if  he  was  going  to  cry.  "  A 
thousand  dollars  'ud  buy  me  and  sell  me  twice  over,  Mr. 
Linthicum." 

"  I'm  not  asking  you  for  a  thousand  dollars  yet,"  said 
Linthicum.  "  I  may  have  to  ask  you  for  five  hundred  be- 
fore long — but  I'm  not  doing  it  now." 

"Five  hundred!"  gasped  Stamps,  and  he  sat  down  in 
a  heap  and  dropped  his  damp  forehead  on  his  hands. 

That  night,  as  Latimer  entered  the  house  of  an  acquaint- 
ance with  whom  he  was  going  to  spend  the  evening,  he 
caught  sight  of  the,  by  this  time,  familiar  figure  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street. 

The  night  was  cold  and  damp,  and  rain  was  falling  when 
the  door  closed  behind  him.  He  heard  it  descending  stead- 
ily throughout  the  evening,  and  more  than  once  the  con- 
tinuance of  the  downpour  was  commented  upon  by  some 
member  of  the  company.  When  the  guests  separated  for 
the  night  and  Latimer  turned  into  the  street  again,  he  had 
scarcely  walked  five  yards  before  hearing  a  cough;  he  cast 
a  glance  over  his  shoulder  and  saw  the  small  man  in  blue 

390 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

jeans.  The  jeans  were  wet  and  water  was  dropping  from 
the  brim  of  the  old  felt  hat.  The  idea  which  at  once  pos- 
sessed his  mind  was  that  for  some  mysterious  reason  best 
known  to  himself  the  wearer  had  been  waiting  for  and  was 
following  him.  What  was  it  for?  He  turned  about  sud- 
denly and  faced  the  person  who  seemed  so  unduly  interested 
in  his  actions. 

"  Do  you  want  to  speak  to  me?  "  he  demanded. 

This  movement,  being  abrupt,  rather  upset  Mr.  Stamps's 
calculations.  He  came  to  a  standstill,  looking  surprised 
and  nervous. 

"  Thar  ain't  no  harm  done,"  he  said.  "  I  aimed  to  find 
out  whar  ye  lived." 

"  Have  you  been  waiting  for  me  to  come  out  of  the 
house?"  asked  Latimer,  feeling  some  curiosity. 

Stamps  admitted  that  he  had,  the  admission  being  some- 
what reluctant,  as  if  he  felt  it  might  commit  him  to  some- 
thing. Having  so  far  betrayed  himself,  however,  he  drew 
something  nearer,  with  a  suggestion  of  stealthiness. 

"  Ye're  mighty  like  a  man  I  once  knowed,"  he  said. 
"  Yer  powerful  like  him.  I  never  seed  two  men  more  liker 
each  other." 

"  Where  did  he  live  when  you  knew  him?  "  Latimer  en- 
quired, the  wretched,  dank  little  figure  suddenly  assuming 
the  haunting  air  of  something  his  eye  must  have  rested  on 
before. 

"  I  seen  him  in  North  Ca'llina.  He  did  not  live  thar — 
in  the  way  other  folks  did.  He  was  jest  stayin'.  I  won't 
keep  ye  standin'  in  the  rain,"  insinuatingly.  "  Fll  jest  walk 
along  by  ye." 

Latimer  walked  on.  This  dragged  him  back  again,  as 
other  things  had  done  once  or  twice.  He  did  not  speak,  but 

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In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

strode  on  almost  too  rapidly  for  Stamps's  short  legs.  The 
short  legs  began  to  trot,  and  their  owner  to  continue  his 
explanations  rather  breathlessly. 

"  He  warn't  livin'  thar  same  as  other  folks/'  he  said. 
"  Thar  was  suthin'  curi's  about  him.  Nobody  knowed  noth- 
in' about  him,  an'  nobody  knew  nothin'  about  his  wife. 
Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  nobody  ever  knowed  his  name 
—but  me." 

"Did  he  tell  it  to  you?"  said  Latimer,  rigidly. 

"  No,"  with  something  verging  on  a  chuckle,  discreetly 
strangled  at  its  birth.  "  Neither  him  nor  his  wife  was 
tellin'  things  just  then.  They  was  layin'  mighty  low.  She 
died  when  her  child  was  borned,  an'  he  lit  out  right  away 
an'  ain't  never  been  heern  tell  of  since." 

Latimer  said  nothing.  The  rain  began  to  fall  more  heav- 
ily, and  Mr.  Stamps  trotted  on. 

"  'Lowin'  for  store  clothes  an'  agein',"  he  continued,  "  I 
never  seen  two  fellers  favour  each  other  as  you  two  do.  An' 
his  name  bein'  the  same  as  yourn,  makes  it  curi'ser  still." 

"  You  are  getting  very  wet,"  was  Latimer's  sole  comment. 

"  I  got  wet  to  the  skin  long  afore  you  come  out  that 
house  where  ye  was,"  said  Mr.  Stamps;  "  but  I  'low  to  find 
out  whar  ye  live." 

"  I  live  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here,"  said  Latimer. 
"The  brick  house  with  the  bay  windows,  opposite  the 
square.  Number  89." 

"  I'd  rather  see  ye  in,"  replied  Stamps,  cautiously. 

"  I  might  go  into  a  house  I  do  not  live  in,"  returned 
Latimer. 

"  Ye  won't.  It's  too  late.  Ain't  ye  gwine  to  say  nothin', 
Mr.  Latimer?" 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say?  " 


In  Connection  with  - 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  Sheby's  good-lookin'  gal,"  Stamps  said.  "  Tom's  done 
well  by  her.  Ef  they  get  their  claim  through  they'll  be 
powerful  rich.  Young  D'Willerby  he's  mightily  in  love 
with  her — an'  he  wouldn't  want  no  talk." 

"  There  is  the  house  I  live  in  at  present/'  said  Latimer, 
pointing  with  his  umbrella.  "  We  shall  be  there  directly.'* 

"  Ministers  don't  want  no  talk  neither,"  proceeded 
Stamps.  "  Ef  a  minister  had  made  a  slip  an'  tried  hard 
to  hide  it  an'  then  hed  it  proved  on  him  he  wouldn't  like 
it — an'  his  church  members  wouldn't  like  it — an'  his  high 
class  friends.  There'd  be  a  heap  er  trouble." 

"  Number  89,"  said  Latimer.  "  You  see  I  was  speaking 
the  truth.  This  is  the  gate;  I  am  going  in." 

His  tone  and  method  were  so  unsatisfactory  and  unmoved 
that — remembering  Abner  Linthicum — Stamps  became  des- 
perate. He  clutched  Latimer's  arm  and  held  it. 

"  It'd  be  worth  money  fur  him  to  git  safe  hold  of  them 
letters.  Thar  was  two  on  'em.  I  didn't  let  on  to  Tom. 
I  wasn't  gwine  to  let  on  to  him  till  I  found  out  he'd  go 
in  with  me.  Them  as  knowed  the  man  they  was  writ  by 
'ud  be  able  to  see  a  heap  in  'em.  They'd  give  him  away. 
Ye'd  better  get  hold  of  ?em.  They're  worth  five  hundred. 
They're  yourn — ye  wrote  'em  yourself.  Ye  ain't  jest  like 
him — ye're  him — I'll  sw'ar  to  ye!  " 

Latimer  suddenly  saw  his  mother's  mild  New  England 
countenance,  with  its  faded  blue  eyes.  He  remembered  the 
hours  he  had  spent  telling  her  the  details  of  the  sunny  days 
in  Italy,  where  Margery  had  lain  smiling  in  the  sunset.  He 
looked  down  the  long  wet  street,  the  lamps  gleaming  on  its 
shining  surface.  He  thought  of  Baird,  who  would  not  re- 
turn until  the  day  on  which  he  was  to  deliver  a  farewell 
lecture  before  leaving  Washington.  He  recalled  his  prompt- 

393 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

ness  of  resource  and  readiness  for  action.  If  Baird  were  but 
in  the  room  above  in  which  the  light  burned  he  would  tell 
him!  His  mind  seemed  to  vault  over  all  else  at  this  instant 
— to  realise  the  thing  which  it  had  not  reached  at. the  first 
shock.  He  turned  on  Stamps. 

"You  say  there  were  letters?"  he  exclaimed,  forgetting 
his  previous  unresponsiveness. 

"  Two.  Not  long  'uns,  an'  wrote  keerful — without  no 
name.  But  they  say  a  heap.  They  was  wrote  when  he 
had  to  leave  her." 

Latimer's  heart  seemed  physically  to  turn  over  in  his  side. 
He  had  never  known  she  had  had  a  line  of  handwriting  in 
her  possession.  This  must  be  some  scrap  of  paper,  some  last, 
last  words  she  clung  to  with  such  anguish  of  desperation 
that  she  could  not  tear  herself  from  them,  and  so  had  died 
leaving  them  in  their  secret  hiding-place.  The  thought  was 
a  shock.  The  effort  it  cost  him  to  regain  his  self-control 
was  gigantic.  But  he  recovered  his  outward  calm. 

"  You  had  better  go  home  and  change  your  clothing/'  he 
said,  as  coldly  as  he  had  spoken  before.  "  You  are  not 
a  young  man  or  a  strong  one,  and  you  may  kill  yourself. 
You  are  making  a  mistake  about  me;  but  if  you  will  give 
me  your  address  I  will  see  you  again." 

"  I  thort  ye  would — mebbe,"  said  Stamps.  "  I  thort 
mebbe  ye  would.  They're  worth  it." 

And  he  scribbled  a  few  words  on  a  scrap  of  paper  with 
a  stump  of  a  pencil — producing  both  rapidly  from  his 
pocket — and  thrusting  it  into  Latimer's  hand,  trotted  away 
contentedly  down  the  long  wet  street. 


394 


CHAPTER  XXXYI 

As  he  entered  his  rooms,  Latimer  glanced  round  at 
Baird's  empty  chair  and  wished  he  had  found  him  sitting 
in  it.  He  walked  over  to  it  and  sat  down  himself — simply 
because  it  was  Baird's  chair  and  suggested  his  presence. 
Latimer  knew  how  he  would  have  turned  to  look  at  him 
as  he  came  in,  and  that  he  would  at  once  have  known  by 
instinct  that  the  old  abyss  had  been  re-opened. 

"  If  he  were  here/7  he  thought,  "  he  would  tell  me  \vhat 
to  do." 

But  he  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  must  buy 
the  little  hoosier's  silence  if  it  was  to  be  bought  He  should 
see  the  letters.  Through  all  those  months  she*  had  hidden 
them.  He  could  imagine  with  what  terror.  She  could  not 
bear  to  destroy  them,  and  yet  he  knew  there  must  have 
been  weeks  she  did  not  dare  to  go  near  their  hiding-place. 
They  must  have  been  concealed  in  some  cranny  of  the  cabin. 
How  she  must  have  shuddered  with  dread  when  he  had 
accidentally  approached  the  spot  where  they  lay  concealed. 
He  recalled  now  that  several  times  he  had  been  wakened 
from  his  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  night  by  hearing  her 
moving  about  her  room  and  sobbing.  She  had  perhaps 
crept  out  of  her  bed  in  the  darkness  to  find  these  scraps 
of  paper,  to  hold  them  in  her  hands,  to  crush  them  against 
her  heart,  to  cover  them  with  piteous  kisses,  salt  with  scald- 
ing tears. 

On  one  such  night  he  had  risen,  and,  going  to  the  closed 
door,  had  spoken  to  her  through  it,  asking  her  if  she  was  ill. 

895 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  No,  no,  Lucien,"  -she  had  cried  out,  "  but — but  I  am 
so  lonely — so  lonely." 

She  had  told  him  the  next  day  that  the  sound  of  the  wind 
soughing  in  the  pines  had  kept  her  from  sleep,  and  she 
had  got  up  because  she  could  not  bear  to  be  still  and  listen. 

He  had  known  well  what  she  meant  by  her  desolate  little 
answer  to  him.  She  had  been  a  beloved  thing  always.  As 
a  child  her  playmates  had  loved  her,  as  a  school-girl  she  had 
won  the  hearts  of  companions  and  teachers  alike.  Nature 
had  endowed  her  with  the  brightness  and  sweetness  which 
win  affection.  The  smile  in  her  eyes  wakened  an  answer 
even  in  the  look  of  passing  strangers.  Suddenly  all  had 
changed.  She  was  hidden  in  the  darkness,  crushed  and 
shamed,  an  outcast  and  a  pariah — a  thing  only  to  be  kept 
out  of  sight.  Sometimes,  after  she  had  been  sitting  lost 
in  thought,  Latimer  had  seen  her  look  up  bewildered,  glance 
at  her  little,  deformed  body,  and  sit  white  and  trembling. 

"  Everything  is  different,"  she  panted  out  once.  "  It  is 
as  if  all  the  world  was  black.  It  is — because — because  I  am 
black!" 

Latimer  had  made  no  effort  to  wring  from  her  the  name 
she  had  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  hide;  yet  he  had  often 
wondered  that  in  some  hysteric  moment  it  had  not  escaped 
her — that  mere  helpless  anguish  did  not  betray  her  into 
uttering  some  word  or  phrase  which  might  have  served  as 
a  clue.  But  this  she  had  never  done,  and  between  them 
there  had  been  built  a  stone  wall  of  silence.  Yet,  in  spite 
of  it,  he  had  known  that  her  young  heart  was  broken  with 
love  for  this  nameless  traitor — a  love  which  would  not  die. 
He  had  seen  it  in  the  woe  of  her  eyes,  in  the  childlike 
longing  of  her  look  when  she  sat  and  gazed  out  over  the 
wild  beauty  of  the  land,  thinking  she  was  unobserved.  In 

396 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

his  own  soul  there  had  been  black,  bitter  hate,  but  in  hers 
only  loneliness  and  pain. 

There  came  back  to  him — and  he  sprang  up  and  ground 
Iris  teeth,  pacing  the  floor  as  he  remembered  it — a  night 
Vhen  she  had  wandered  out  alone  in  the  starlight,  and  at 
last  he  had  followed  her  and  found  her — though  she  did  not 
know  he  was  near — standing  where  the  roof  of  pine-trees 
Made  a  darkness,  and  as  he  stood  within  four  feet  of  her 
3ie  had  heard  her  cry  to  the  desolate  stillness: 

"If  I  could  see  you  once!  If  I  could  see  you  once — if 
I  could  touch  you — if  I  could  hear  you  speak — just  once — 
just  once! " 

And  she  had  wailed  it  low — but  as  a  starving  child  might 
cry  for  bread.  And  he  had  turned  and  gone  away,  sick  of 
soul,  leaving  her. 

He  had  told  this  to  Baird,  and  had  seen  the  muscles  of 
his  face  twitch  and  his  eyes  suddenly  fill  with  tears.  He 
had  left  his  seat  and  crossed  the  room  to  conceal  his  emo- 
tion, and  Latimer  had  known  that  he  did  not  speak  because 
he  could  not. 

The  letters  were  written  with  caution,  Stamps  had  said, 
and  the  mention  of  names  had  been  avoided  in  them;  and, 
though  he  ground  his  teeth  again  as  he  thought  of  this,  he 
realised  that  the  knowledge  brought  by  a  name  would  be 
of  no  value  to  him.  Long  ago  he  had  said  to  big  Tom  in 
the  cabin  on  the  hillside:  "If  ever  we  meet  face  to  face 
knowing  each  other,  I  swear  I  will  not  spare  him."  Spare 
him?  Spare  him  what?  What  vengeance  could  he  work 
which  would  wipe  out  one  hour  of  that  past  woe?  None.  He 
had  grown  sick  to  death  in  dwelling  with  the  memories  he 
could  not  bury.  He  had  been  born  cursed  by  the  tempera- 
ment which  cannot  outlive,  There  are  such.  And  it  was  the 

,397 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

temperament  to  which'  vengeance  brings  no  relief.  No;  if 
they  two  met  face  to  face,  what  words  could  be  said — what 
deeds  could  be  done?  His  forehead  and  hands  grew  damp 
with  cold  sweat  as  he  confronted  the  despair  of  it. 

"  Better  that  I  should  not  know  his  name/'  he  cried. 
"  Better  that  we  should  never  meet.  Pray  God  that  he  is 
dead;  pray  God  the  earth  does  not  hold  him." 

The  man  who  had  followed  him  had  plainly  but  one  pur- 
pose, which  was  the  obtaining  of  money.  He  looked  as  if 
he  needed  it  directly.  He  would  go  to  him  and  pay  him 
what  he  asked  and  get  the  papers.  They  must  be  in  no 
other  hands  than  his  own.  When  he  had  them,  Baird  and 
himself  would  destroy  them  together,  and  that  would  be 
the  end. 

He  encountered  no  difficulties  when  he  went  in  search 
of  the  address  Stamps  had  given  him.  The  room  he  had 
directed  him  to  was  over  a  small  store  on  the  south  side 
of  Pennsylvania  Avenue.  When  he  entered  it  he  saw  at 
once  that  the  man  whose  circumstances  reduced  him  to 
living  in  it  must  be  one  whose  need  of  money  was  great 
indeed.  It  was  entirely  unfurnished,  except  for  a  mattress 
lying  on  the  floor,  and  Stamps  was  stretched  upon  it,  cough- 
ing and  feverish. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said.  "  I  knowed  ye'd  be  here  purty  soon. 
Thar  ain't  no  chair  to  ax  ye  to  set  down  in." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  sit,"  said  Latimer.  "  You  are  ill. 
You  caught  cold  last  night." 

"  I  s'pose  I  did,  durn  it,"  answered  Stamps.  "  I  got 
drenched  to  the  skin,  an'  I  hadn't  nothin'  dry  to  put  on 
when  I  got  home.  But  I'd  seen  ye — an'  told  ye  what  I'd 
'lowed  to  tell  ye." 

"Where  are  the  papers  you  spoke  of?"  Latimer  asked. 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Stamps's  feverish  lips  stretched  themselves  in  an  agree- 
able smile. 

"  They  ain't  yere,"  he  answered;  "  an'  they  won't  be  yere 

(  till  I've  got  the  pay  fur  'em.     Ef  thar  was  names  in  'em 

they'd  cost  ye  a  heap  more  than  five  hundred  dollars — an' 

they'd  cost  ye  more  anyhow  ef  I  hadn't  a  use  for  that  five 

hundred  jest  this  particular  time." 

"Where  are  they?"  enquired  Latimer.  He  meant  to 
waste  no  words. 

"  They're  in  North  Ca'lliny,"  answered  the  little  moun- 
taineer, cheerfully.  "  An'  I've  got  a  woman  thar  es'll  send 
'em  when  I  want  'em." 

"  She  may  send  them  when  you  wish." 

Stamps  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  coughing,  clutching  his 
side. 

"Will  ye  give  five  hundred?"  he  panted  when  it  was 
over. 

"  Yes." 

"  Ye  want  'em  pretty  bad,  do  ye?  "  said  Stamps,  looking 
at  him  with  a  curiosity  not  untinged  with  dubiousness.  He 
was  sharp  enough  to  realise  that,  upon  the  whole,  his  case 
was  not  a  strong  one. 

"  I  don't  want  them  for  the  reason  you  think  I  want  them 
for,"  Latimer  replied;  his  voice  was  cold  and  hard,  and  his 
manner  unpromisingly  free  from  emotion  or  eagerness.  "  I 
want  them  for  a  reason  of  my  own.  As  for  your  pretence 
of  recognising  me  as  a  man  you  have  seen  before,  go  out 
into  the  street  corners  and  say  what  you  choose.  My  friends 
know  how  and  where  my  life  has  been  spent,  and  you  are 
shrewd  enough  to  know  how  far  your  word  will  stand  against 
mine.  If  you  need  the  money  now,  you  had  better  produce 
what  you  have  to  sell." 

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In   Cortnection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  could  get  ye  mightily  talked  about,"  said  Stamps,  rest- 
lessly. 

"  Try  it,"  answered  Latimer,  and  turned  as  if  to  walk 
out  of  the  room.  He  knew  what  he  was  dealing  with,  and 
saw  the  fevered  cupidity  and  fear  in  the  little,  shifting  eyes. 

Stamps  struggled  up  into  a  sitting  posture  on  his  mattress 
and  broke  forth  into  coughs  again. 

"  Come  back  yere,"  he  cried  between  gasps;  "  ye  needn't 
ter  go." 

Latimer  paused  where  he  stood  and  waited  until  the  fit 
of  coughing  was  over;  and  Stamps  threw  himself  back  ex- 
hausted. His  shifty  eyes  burned  uncannily,  his  physical 
and  mental  fever  were  too  much  for  him.  Linthicum  had 
just  left  him  before  Latimer  arrived,  and  upon  the  produc- 
tion of  five  hundred  dollars  rested  the  fate  of  the  claim  for 
the  herds. 

"  Ef  ye'll  bring  the  money — cash  down — next  Saturday," 
he  said,  "  I'll  give  ye  the  papers.  I'll  hev  'em  yere  by  then. 
When  ye've  got  'em,"  with  the  agreeable  grin  again,  "  ye 
kin  go  to  yer  friend's  far'well  lecture  easy  in  ye  mind.  Ye 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  go  to  many  of  'em  ef  he  knowed  what 
I  could  tell  him.  He's  powerful  thick  with  Tom  D'Willeby 
and  Sheby.  They  think  a  heap  of  him.  Tom  must  hev 
guessed  what  I've  guessed,  but  he  don't  want  no  talk  on 
accounts  o'  Sheby.  Tom  knows  which  side  his  bread's  but- 
tered— he  ain't  nigh  as  big  a  fool  as  he  looks." 

Latimer  stood  still. 

"Next  Saturday?"  was  his  sole  response.  "In  the 
meantime,  I  should  advise  you  to  send  for  the  doctor." 

He  left  him  coughing  and  catching  at  his  side. 


400 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

DURING  this  week  Judge  Rutherford's  every  hour  was 
filled  with  action  and  excitement.  He  had  not  a  friend 
or  acquaintance  in  either  House  whom  he  did  not  seek  out 
and  labour  with.  He  was  to  be  seen  in  the  lobby,  in  the 
corridors,  in  committee-rooms,  arguing  and  explaining, 
with  sheafs  of  papers  in  his  hands  and  bundles  of  documents 
bulging  out  of  his  pockets.  He  walked  down  the  avenue 
holding  the  arm  of  his  latest  capture,  his  trustworthy  coun- 
tenance heated  by  his  interest  and  anxiety,  his  hat  thrust 
on  the  back  of  his  head.  "  There's  got  to  be  justice  done," 
he  would  protest.  "  You  see,  justice  has  got  to  be  done. 
There's  no  other  way  out  of  it.  And  I'd  swear  there  ain't 
a  man  among  you  who  doesn't  own  up  that  it  is  justice,  now 
all  this  evidence  has  been  brought  together.  The  country 
couldn't  be  responsible  for  throwing  the  thing  over — even 
till  another  session.  Everything's  in  black  and  white  and 
sworn  to  and  proved — and  the  papers  Baird  has  sent  in 
clinch  the  whole  thing.  Now  just  look  here — "  And  he 
would  repeat  his  story  and  refer  to  his  documents,  until 
even  the  indifferent  succumbed  through  exhaustion,  if  not 
conviction. 

He  appeared  at  Dupont  Circle  two  or  three  times  a  day, 
always  fevered  with  delighted  hope,  always  with  some  anec- 
dote to  relate  which  prognosticated  ultimate  triumph.  If 
he  could  not  find  anyone  else  to  talk  to  he  seized  upon  Miss 
Burford  or  Uncle  Matt  and  poured  forth  his  news  to  them. 
He  wrote  exultant  letters  to  Jenny,  the  contents  of  which, 
being  given  to  Barnes ville,  travelled  at  once  to  Talbot's 

401 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Cross-roads  and  wakened  it  to  exhilarated  joyfulness,  draw- 
ing crowds  to  the  Post-office  and  perceptibly  increasing  the 
traffic  on  the  roads  from  the  mountains  to  that  centre  of 
civilised  social  intercourse. 

"  Tom's  agwine  to  win  his  claim/'  it  was  said.  "  Judge 
Rutherford's  walkin'  it  right  through  for  him.  Tom'll  be 
way  ahead  of  the  richest  man  in  Hamlin.  Sheby  '11  be  a 
hairest.  Lordy!  what  a  sight  it'll  be  to  see  'em  come  back. 
Wonder  whar  they'll  build!  " 

In  Washington  it  had  begun  to  be  admitted  even  by  the 
reluctant  that  the  fortunes  of  the  De  Willoughby  claim 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  turn:  Members  of  substantial  po- 
sition discussed  it  among  themselves.  It  was  a  large  claim, 
and  therefore  a  serious  one,  but  it  had  finally  presented 
itself  upon  an  apparently  solid  foundation. 

"  And  it  is  the  member  from  the  mountain  districts,  and 
the  old  negro,  and  the  popular  minister  who  will  have  carried 
it  through  if  it  passes,"  said  Senator  Milner  to  his  daughter. 
"  It  is  a  monumental  thing  at  this  crisis  of  affairs — a  huge, 
unpopular  claim  on  a  resenting  government  carried  through 
by  persons  impelled  solely  by  the  most  purely  primitive  and 
disinterested  of  motives.  An  ingenuous  county  politician, 
fresh  from  his  native  wilds,  works  for  it  through  sheer  pre- 
historic affection  and  neighbourliness;  an  old  black  man 
— out  of  a  story-book — forges  a  powerful  link  of  evidence 
for  mere  faithful  love's  sake;  a  man  who  is  a  minister  of 
the  gospel,  a  gentleman  and  above  reproach,  gives  to  its 
service  all  his  interest,  solely  because  he  cherishes  an  affec- 
tionate admiration  for  the  claimants.  Nobody  has  laboured 
with  any  desire  for  return.  Nobody  has  bargained  for  any- 
thing. Nobody  would  accept  anything  if  it  was  offered 
to  them.  The  whole  affair  has  been  Arcadian." 

402 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"Will  it  be  decided  for  the  De  Willoughbys— will  it?" 
said  Mrs.  Meredith. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  Senator;  "  I  think  it  will.  And 
I  confess  I  shall  not  advance  any  objections." 

Meeting  big  Tom  on  the  avenue,  Ezra  Stamps  stopped 
him. 

"  Tom/'  he  wheezed,  hoarsely,  "  I  heern  tell  you  was 
likely  ter  git  yer  claim  through." 

"  There  are  times  when  you  can  hear  that  about  almost 
any  claim/'  answered  Tom.  "  What  I'm  waiting  for  is  to 
hear  that  I've  got  it  through." 

Stamps  gnawed  his  finger-nails  restlessly. 

"  Ye're  lucky,"  he  said;   "  ye  allus  was  lucky." 

"  How  about  the  herds?  "  said  Tom. 

Stamps  gave  him  an  agonised  look. 

"  Hev  ye  ever  said  anything  agen  me,  Tom — to  any  man 
with  inflooence?  Hev  ye,  now?  'Twouldn't  be  neigh- 
bourly of  ye  if  ye  hed — an'  we  both  come  from  the  Cross- 
roads— an'  I  allus  give  ye  my  custom.  Ye  won't  never  go 
agen  me,  will  ye,  Tom?" 

"  I've  never  been  asked  any  questions  about  you,"  Tom 
said.  "  Look  here,  you  had  better  go  to  some  hospital  and 
ask  to  be  taken  in.  What  are  you  walking  about  the  street 
for  in  that  fix?  You  can  scarcely  breathe." 

"  I'm  a-gwine  to  walk  about  until  Saturday,"  answered 
Stamps,  with  a  grin.  "  I'm  lookin'  arter  my  own  claim — 
an'  Abner  Linthicum.  Arter  Saturday  I'll  lie  up  for  a 
spell." 

"  You'd  better  do  it  before  Saturday,"  Tom  remarked 
as  he  left  him. 

Stamps  stood  and  watched  him  walk  away,  and  then 
turned  into  a  drug-store  and  bought  a  cheap  bottle  of  cough 

403 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

mixture.  He  was  passing  through  the  early  stages  of  pneu- 
monia, and  was  almost  too  weak  to  walk,  but  he  had  gone 
from  place  to  place  that  morning  like  a  machine.  Linthi- 
cum  had  driven  him.  So  long  as  he  was  employed  in  badg- 
ering other  men  he  was  not  hanging  about  the  agent's  office. 
Linthicum  was  not  anxious  that  he  should  be  seen  there 
too  frequently.  After  the  payment  of  the  five  hundred 
dollars  there  would  be  no  more  to  be  wrung  from  him,  and 
he  could  be  dropped.  He  could  be  told  that  it  was  useless 
to  push  the  claim  further.  Until  the  five  hundred  was 
secured,  however,  he  must  be  kept  busy.  Consequently, 
he  went  from  one  man  to  the  other  until  he  could  walk 
no  more.  Then  he  crawled  back  to  his  room  and  sent  a  note 
to  Latimer. 

"  I  cayn't  git  the  papers  tel  Saturday  afternoon.  Ef  ye 
bring  the  money  about  seven  ye  ken  hev  them.  'Tain't 
no  use  comin'  no  earlier." 

Latimer  found  the  communication  when  he  returned  to 
his  rooms  in  the  evening.  He  had  been  out  on  business 
connected  with  Baird's  final  lecture.  It  was  to  be  a  special 
event,  and  was  delivered  in  response  to  a  general  request. 
A  building  of  larger  dimensions  than  the  hall  previously 
used  had  been  engaged.  The  demand  for  seats  had  been 
continuously  increasing.  The  newspaper  and  social  discus- 
sion of  the  prospects  of  the  De  Willoughby  claim  had  added 
to  the  interest  in  Baird.  This  brilliant  and  popular  man, 
this  charming  and  gifted  fellow,  had  felt  such  a  generous 
desire  to  assist  the  claimants  that  he  had  gone  South  in  the 
interest  of  their  fortunes.  He  had  been  detained  in  De- 
lisleville  and  could  barely  return  in  time  to  appear  before 
his  audience. 

The  enthusiasm  and  eagerness  were  immense.  Every 
4^4 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

man  who  had  not  heard  him  felt  he  must  hear  him  now; 
everyone  who  had  heard  him  was  moved  by  the  wish  to 
be  of  his  audience  again.  Latimer  had  been  besieged  on 
all  sides,  and,  after  a  hard  day,  had  come  home  fagged  and 
worn.  But  he  was  not  worn  only  by  business  interviews, 
newspaper  people,  and  applicants  for  seats  which  could  not 
be  obtained.  He  was  worn  by  his-  thoughts  of  the  past  days, 
by  his  lack  of  Baird's  presence  and  his  desire  for  his  return. 
His  influence  was  always  a  controlling  and  supporting  one. 
Latimer  felt  less  morbid  and  more  sane  when  they  were 
together. 

This  same  night  Senator  Milner  and  Judge  Rutherford 
called  in  company  at  the  house  near  the  Circle.  When 
Uncle  Matt  opened  the  door  for  them  Judge  Rutherford 
seized  his  hand  and  shook  it  vigorously.  The  Judge  was  in 
the  mood  to  shake  hands  with  everybody. 

"  Uncle  Matt,"  he  said,  "  we're  going  to  get  it  through, 
and  in  a  week's  time  you'll  be  a  rich  man's  servant." 

Matt  fled  back  to  Miss  Burford  trembling  with  joy  and 
excitement. 

"  Do  ye  think  we  is  gwine  t'rough,  ma'am?"  he  said. 
*'  D'ye  think  we  is?  Seems  like  we  was  the  Isrilites  a-cross- 
in'  the  Red  Sea,  an'  the  fust  of  us  is  jest  steppin'  on  de  sho'. 
Lordy,  Miss  Burford,  ma'am,  I  don't  know  how  I'se  gwine 
to  stan'  dat  great  day  when  we  is  th'ough,  shore  enuff. 
Wash'n'ton  city  ain't  gwine  be  big  enuff  to  hoi'  me." 

"  It  will  be  a  great  day,  Uncle  Matthew,"  replied  Miss 
Burford,  with  elated  decorum  of  manner.  "  The  De  Wil- 
loughby mansion  restored  to  its  former  elegance.  Mr. 
Thomas  De  Willoughby  the  possessor  of  wealth,  and  the 
two  young  people — "  She  bridled  a  little,  gently,  and 
touched  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief  with  a  slight  cough. 

405 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"When  Marse  De  Courcy  an'  Miss  Delia  Vanuxem  was 
married,  dar  was  people  from  fo'  counties  at  de  infar,"  said 
Matt.  "  De  fust  woman  what  I  was  married  to,  she  done 
de  cookin'." 

Senator  Milner  was  shaking  hands  with  big  Tom  upstairs. 
He  regarded  him  with  interest,  remembering  the  morning 
he  had  evaded  an  interview  with  him.  The  little  room 
was  interesting;  the  two  beautiful  young  people  suggested 
the  atmosphere  of  a  fairy  story. 

"  You  are  on  the  verge  of  huge  good  fortune,  I  think, 
Mr.  De  Willoughby,"  he  said.  "  I  felt  that  I  should  like 
to  come  with  Eutherford  to  tell  you  that  all  is  going  very 
well  with  your  claim.  Members  favour  it  whose  expression 
of  opinion  is  an  enormous  weight  in  the  balance.  Judge 
Eutherford  is  going  to  speak  for  you — and  so  am  I." 

Judge  Eutherford  shook  Tom's  hand  rather  more  vig- 
orously than  he  had  shaken  Matt's.  "  I  wish  to  the  Lord 
I  was  an  orator,  Tom,"  he  said.  "  If  I  can't  make  them 
listen  to  me  this  time  I  believe  I  shall  blow  my  brains  out. 
But,  what  with  Williams,  Atkinson,  and  Baird,  we've  got 
things  that  are  pretty  convincing,  and  somehow  I  swear 
the  claim  has  begun  to  be  popular." 

When  the  two  men  had  gone  the  little  room  was  for  a 
few  moments  very  still.  Each  person  in  it  was  under  the 
influence  of  curiously  strong  emotion.  Anxious  waiting 
cannot  find  itself  upon  the  brink  of  great  fortune  and  re- 
main unmoved.  Some  papers  with  calculations  worked  out 
in  them  lay  upon  the  table,  and  big  Tom  sat  looking  at 
them  silently.  Sheba  stood  a  few  feet  away  from  him,  her 
cheeks  flushed,  light  breaths  coming  quickly  through  her 
parted  lips.  Bupert  looked  at  her  as  youth  and  love  must 
look  at  love  and  youth. 

406 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"Uncle  Tom/'  he  said,  at  last,  "are  you  thinking  of 
what  we  shall  do  if  we  find  ourselves  millionaires  ?  " 

"  No"  answered  Tom. 

His  eyes  rested  on  the  boy  in  thoughtful  questioning. 

"  No;  I'll  own  I'm  not  thinking  of  that." 

"  Neither  am  I,"  said  Eupert.  He  drew  nearer  to  Sheba. 
"  It  would  be  a  strange  thing  to  waken  and  find  ourselves 
owners  of  a  fortune,"  he  said.  "  We  may  waken  to  find  it 
so — in  a  few  days.  But  there  is  always  a  chance  that  things 
may  fail  one.  I  was  thinking  of  what  we  should  do  if — 
we  lose  everything." 

Sheba  put  out  her  slim  hand.  She  smiled  with  trembling 
lips. 

"  We  have  been  across  the  mountain,"  she  said.  "  We 
came  together — and  we  will  go  back  together.  Will  you 
go  back  with  us,  Eupert?" 

He  took  her  in  his  strong  young  arms  and  kissed  her, 
while  Tom  looked  on. 

"  That  is  what  I  was  thinking,"  he  cried;  "  that  it  does 
not  matter  whether  we  win  the  claim  or  lose  it.  The  house 
is  gone  and  the  store  is  gone,  but  we  can  add  a  room  to 
the  cabin  in  Blair's  Hollow — we  can  do  it  ourselves — and  I 
will  learn  to  plough." 

He  dropped  on  one  knee  like  a  young  knight  and  kissed 
her  little,  warm,  soft  palm. 

"  If  I  can  take  care  of  you  and  Uncle  Tom,  Sheba,"  he 
said,  "  will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  marry  you."  she  answered.  "  We  three  can 
be  happy  together — and  there  will  always  be  the  spring 
and  the  summer  and  the  winter." 

"  May  she  marry  me,  Uncle  Tom,"  Eupert  asked,  "  even 
though  we  begin  life  like  Adam  and  Eve?  " 

407 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  She  shall  marry  you  the  day  we  go  back  to  the  moun- 
tains," said  Tom.  "  I  always  thought  Adam  and  Eve  would 
have  had  a  pretty  fair  show — if  they  had  not  left  the  Garden 
of  Eden  behind  them  when  they  began  the  world  for  them- 
selves. You  won't  have  left  it  behind  you.  You'll  find  it 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  Talbot's  Cross-roads." 


408 


CHAPTEE  XXXVIII 

THE  facts  in  detail  which  the  Reverend  John  Baird  had 
journeyed  to  Delisle  County  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to 
gather,  he  had  been  successful  in  gaining  practical  posses- 
sion of.  Having  personal  charm,  grace  in  stating  a  case, 
and  many  resources  both  of  ability  and  manner,  he  had 
the  power  to  attract  even  the  prejudiced,  and  finally  to  win 
their  interest  and  sympathies.  He  had  seen  and  conversed 
with  people  who  could  have  been  reached  in  no  ordinary 
way,  and  having  met  them  had  been  capable  of  managing 
even  their  prejudices  and  bitterness  of  spirit.  The  result 
had  been  the  accumulation  of  useful  and  convincing  evi- 
dence in  favour  of  the  De  Willoughbys,  though  he  had  in 
more  than  one  instance  gained  it  from  persons  who  had  been 
firm  in  their  intention  to  give  no  evidence  at  all.  This 
evidence  had  been  forwarded  to  Washington  as  it  had  been 
collected,  and  when  Baird  returned  to  the  Capital  it  was~ 
with  the  knowledge  that  his  efforts  had  more  than  proba- 
bly put  the  final  touches  to  the  work  which  would  gain  the 
day  for  the  claimants. 

His  train  was  rather  late,  and  as  it  drew  up  before  the 
platform  he  glanced  at  his  watch  in  some  anxiety.  His 
audience  for  the  lecture  must  already  have  begun  to  turn 
their  faces  toward  the  hall  in  which  the  evening's  enter- 
tainment was  to  be  held.  He  had  hoped  to  reach  his  jour- 
ney's end  half  an  hour  earlier.  He  had  wanted  a  few  min- 
utes with  Latimer,  whose  presence  near  him  had  become 
so  much  a  part  of  his  existence,,  that  after  an  absence  fre  felt 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

he  had  lacked  him.  He  took  a  carriage  at  the  depot  and 
drove  quickly  to  their  rooms.  They  were  to  leave  them  in 
a  day  or  two  and  return  to  Willowfield.  Already  some  of 
their  possessions  had  been  packed  up.  The  sitting-room 
struck  him  as  looking  a  little  bare  as  he  entered  it. 

"  Is  Mr.  Latimer  out/'  he  asked  the  mulatto  who  brought 
up  his  valise. 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  was  called  out  by  a  message.  He  left  a 
note  for  you  on  the  desk." 

Baird  went  to  the  desk  and  found  it.  It  contained  only 
a  few  lines. 

"  Everything  is  prepared  for  you.  The  audience  will  be 
the.  best  you  have  had  at  any  time.  I  have  been  sent  for  by 
the  man  Stamps.  He  is  ill  of  pneumonia  and  wishes  to  de- 
liver some  letters  to  me.  I  will  be  with  you  before  you  go 
on  the  platform." 

Since  he  had  left  Washington,  Baird  had  heard  from 
Latimer  but  once  and  then  but  briefly.  He  had  felt  that 
his  dark  mood  was  upon  him,  and  this  reference  to  letters 
recalled  the  fact. 

"  Stamps  is  the  little  man  with  the  cattle  claim,"  he  com- 
mented to  himself.  "  He  comes  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Cross-roads.  What  letters  could  he  have  to  hand 
over?" 

And  he  began  to  dress,  wondering  vaguely. 


Stamps  had  spent  a  sleepless  night.  He  could  not  sleep 
because  his  last  interview  with  Linthicum  had  driven  him 
hard,  even  though  he  had  been  able  to  promise  him  the 
required  five  hundred  dollars;  he  also  could  not  sleep  be- 
cause the  air  of  the  city  had  been  full  of  talk  about  the 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

promising  outlook  of  the  De  Willoughby  claim.  Over  the 
reports  he  had  heard,  he  had  raged  almost  with  tears. 

"  The  Dwillerbys  is  ristycrats,"  he  had  said.  "  They're 
ristycrats,  an'  it  gives  'em  a  pull  even  if  they  was  rebels  an' 
Southerners.  A  pore  man  ez  works  hard  an'  ain't  nothin' 
but  a  honest  farmer,  an'  a  sound  Union  man  ain't  got  no 
show.  Ef  I'd  been  a  ristycrat  I  could  hev  got  inflooence  ez 
hed  hev  pulled  wires  fur  me.  But  I  hain't  nothin'  but  my 
loyal  Union  principles.  I  ain't  no  ristycrat,  an'  I  never 
aimed  to  be  none." 

The  bitterness  of  his  nervous  envy  would  have  kept  him 
awake  if  he  had  had  no  other  reason  for  being  disturbed, 
but  most  of  all  he  was  sleepless,  because  he  was  desperately 
ill  and  in  danger  he  knew  nothing  of.  Cold  and  weeks  of 
semi-starvation,  anxiety,  excitement,  and  drenched  gar- 
ments had  done  the  little  man  to  death,  and  he  lay  raging 
with  fever  and  stabbed  with  pain  at  each  indrawn  breath, 
tossing  and  gasping  and  burning,  but  thinking  only  of 
Linthicum  and  the  herds  and  the  scraps  of  paper  which 
were  to  bring  him  five  hundred  dollars.  He  was  physically 
wretched,  but  even  while  he  was  racked  with  agonised  fits 
of  coughing  and  prostrated  with  pain  it  did  not  occur  to 
him  to  think  that  he  was  in  danger.  He  was  too  wholly 
absorbed  in  other  thoughts.  The  only  danger  he  recog- 
nised was  the  danger  that  there  might  be  some  failure  in 
his  plans — that  Linthicum  might  give  him  up — that  the 
parson  might  back  out  of  his  bargain,  realising  that  after 
all  letters  unsigned  save  by  a  man's  Christian  name  were 
not  substantial  evidence.  Perhaps  he  would  not  come  at 
all;  perhaps  he  would  leave  the  city;  perhaps  if  he  came 
he  would  refuse  to  give  more  than  half  or  quarter  the  sum 
asked.  Then  Linthicum  would  throw  him  over — he  knew 

4U 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

Linthicum  would  throw  him  over.  He  uttered  a  small  cry 
like  a  tortured  cat. 

"  I  know  he'll  do  it,"  he  said.  "  I  seen  it  in  his  eye  yes- 
terday, when  he  let  out  on  me  an'  said  he  was  a-gettin'  sick 
of  the  business.  I  shed  hev  kept  my  mouth  shut.  I'd  said 
too  much  an'  it  made  him  mad.  He'll  throw  me  over  Mon- 
day mornin'  ef  I  don't  take  him  the  money  on  Sunday." 

He  ate  nothing  all  through  the  day  but  lay  waiting  for 
the  passing  of  the  hours.  He  had  calculated  as  to  which 
post  would  bring  the  letter  from  Minty.  He  had  written 
to  tell  her  of  the  hiding-place  in  which  he  had  kept  the  bits 
of  paper  safe  and  dry  through  all  the  years.  She  was  to 
enclose  them  in  a  stout  envelope  and  send  them  to  him. 

Through  the  long,  dragging  day  he  lay  alone  burning, 
gasping,  fighting  for  his  breath  in  the  attacks  of  coughing 
which  seemed  to  tear  his  lungs  asunder.  There  was  a  clock 
in  a  room  below  whose  striking  he  could  hear  each  hour. 
Between  each  time  it  struck  he  felt  as  if  weeks  elapsed. 
Sometimes  it  was  months.  He  had  begun  to  be  light- 
headed and  to  think  queer  things.  Once  or  twice  he  heard 
a  man  talking  in  a  croaking  wail,  and  after  a  few  minutes 
realised  that  it  was  himself,  and  that  he  did  not  know  what 
he  had  said,  though  he  knew  he  had  been  arguing  with 
Linthicum,  who  was  proving  to  him  that  his  claim  was  too 
rotten  to  have  a  ghost  of  a  chance.  By  the  time  the  after- 
noon post  arrived  he  was  semi-delirious  and  did  not  know 
how  it  happened  that  he  at  last  found  himself  holding 
Minty's  letter  in  his  hand.  He  laughed  hysterically  when 
he  opened  it.  It  was  all  right.  There  were  the  two  yellowed 
sheets  of  paper — small  sheets,  written  close,  and  in  a  pecul- 
iar hand.  He  had  often  studied  the  handwriting,  and  be- 
lieved if  he  had  seen  it  again  he  should  know  it.  It  was 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

small  but  strong  and  characteristic,  though  that  was  not 
what  he  had  called  it. 

"  Ef  I'd  hed  more  time  an'  could  hev  worked  it  out 
more — an'  got  him  to  write  suthin'  down — I  could  hev  hed 
more  of  a  hold/'  he  said,  plaintively,  "but  Linthicum 
wouldn't  give  me  no  time." 

The  post  arrived  earlier  than  he  had  expected  it,  and 
this  gave  him  time  to  lie  and  fret  and  listen  again  for  the 
striking  of  the  clock  in  the  room  downstairs.  The  wait- 
ing became  too  long,  and  as  his  fever  increased  he  became 
insanely  impatient  and  could  not  restrain  himself.  To  lie 
and  listen  for  his  visitor's  footsteps  upon  the  stairs — to  lie 
until  seven  o'clock — if  he  did  not  come  till  then,  would  be 
more  than  he  could  endure.  That  would  give  him  too  long 
to  think  over  what  Linthicum  would  do  if  the  whole  sum 
were  not  forthcoming — to  think  of  the  reasons  why  the 
parson  might  make  up  his  mind  to  treat  the  letters  as  if 
they  were  worthless.  He  lay  and  gnawed  his  finger-nails 
anew. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  nothin'  for  'em  ef  I  was  in  his  place," 
he  muttered.  "  Ef  thar'd  been  anythin'  in  'em  that  proved 
anythin'  I  should  hev  used  'em  long  sence.  But  then  I'm 
a  business  man  an'  he's  a  parson,  an'  doesn't  know  nothin' 
about  the  laws.  But  he  might  go  to  some  man — say  a  man 
like  Linthicum — who  could  put  him  up  to  things.  Good 
Lord ! "  in  a  new  panic,  "  he  mayn't  come  at  all.  He 
might  jest  stay  away." 

He  became  so  overwrought  by  this  agonising  possibility 
that  instead  of  listening  for  the  striking  of  the  clock,  he 
began  to  listen  for  the  sound  of  some  passing  footstep — the 
footstep  of  someone  passing  by  chance  who  might  be  sent 
to  the  parson  with  a  note.  With  intolerable  effort  and  suf- 

413 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

fering  he  managed  to  drag  himself  up  and  get  hold  of  a 
piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  to  write  the  following  lines: 

"  The  letters  hes  come.  You'd  as  well  come  an'  get  'em. 
Others  will  pay  for  'em  ef  ye  don't  want  'em  yerself." 

His  writing  of  the  last  sentence  cheered  his  spirits.  It 
was  a  support  to  his  small,  ignorant  cunning.  "He'll 
think  someone  else  is  biddin'  agen  him,"  he  said.  "  Ef 
there  was  two  of  'em  biddin',  I  could  get  most  anythin'  I 
axed." 

After  he  had  put  the  communication  in  an  envelope  he 
dragged  himself  to  the  door  almost  bent  double  by  the 
stabbing  pain  in  his  side.  Once  there  he  sat  down  on  the 
floor  to  listen  for  footsteps. 

"  It's  hard  work  this  yere,"  he  panted,  shivering  with 
cold  in  spite  of  his  fever,  "  but  it's  better  than  a-lyin'  thar 
doin'  nothin'." 

At  length  he  heard  steps.  They  were  the  running, 
stamping  feet  of  a  boy  who  whistled  as  he  came. 

Stamps  opened  the  door  and  whistled  himself — a  whistle 
of  summons  and  appeal.  The  boy,  who  was  on  his  way 
with  a  message  to  another  room,  hesitated  a  minute  and 
then  came  forward,  staring  at  the  sight  of  the  little,  un- 
dressed, shivering  man  with  his  head  thrust  into  the  pas- 
sage. 

"  Hallo!  "  he  said,  "  what  d'yer  want?  " 

"  Want  ye  to  carry  this  yere  letter  to  a  man,"  Stamps  got 
out  hoarsely.  "  I'll  give  ye  a  quarter.  Will  ye  do  it?  " 

"  Yes."  And  he  took  both  note  and  money,  still  staring 
at  the  abnormal  object  before  him. 

When  the  messenger  arrived  Latimer  was  reading  the 
letters  which  had  arrived  by  the  last  delivery.  One  of  them 
was  from  Baird,  announcing  the  hour  of  his  return  to  the 

414 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

city.    Latimer  held  it  in  his  hand  when  Stamps's  communi- 
cation was  brought  to  him. 

"  Tell  the  messenger  that  I  will  come/'  he  said. 


It  was  not  long  before  Stamps  heard  his  slow  approach 
sounding  upon  the  bare  wooden  stairs.  He  mounted  the 
steps  deliberately  because  he  was  thinking.  He  was  think- 
ing as  he  had  thought  on  his  way  through  the  streets.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  should  be  holding  in  his  hand  letters 
written  by  the  man  who  had  been  Margery's  murderer — the 
letters  she  had  hidden  and  clung  to  and  sobbed  over  in  the 
blackness  of  her  nights.  And  they  had  been  written  twenty 
years  ago,  and  Margery  had  changed  to  dust  on  the  hill- 
side under  the  pines.  And  nothing  could  be  undone  and 
nothing  softened.  But  for  the  sake  of  the  little  old  woman 
ending  her  days  quietly  in  Willowfield — and  for  the  sake 
of  Margery's  memory — yes,  he  wanted  to  save  the  child's 
memory — but  for  these  things  there  would  be  no  use  in 
making  any  effort  to  secure  the  papers.  Yet  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  dread  of  the  moment  when  he  should  take  them 
into  his  hand. 

Stamps  turned  eager,  miserable  eyes  upon  him  as  he 
came  in. 

"I  thought  mebbe  ye'd  made  up  yer  mind  to  let  the 
other  feller  hev  them,"  he  said.  "  Hev  ye  brought  the 
money  in  bills?  " 

Latimer  stood  and  looked  down  at  him.  "  Do  you  know 
how  ill  you  are?  "  he  said. 

"  Wai,  I  guess  I  kin  feel  a  right  smart — but  I  don't  keer 
so's  things  comes  my  way.  Hev  ye  got  the  money  with  ye?  " 

"  Yes.    Where  are  the  papers?  " 

415 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"Whar's  the  money?" 

Latimer  took  out  a  pocket-book  and  opened  it  that  he 
might  see. 

Stamps's  countenance  relaxed.    The  tension  was  relieved. 

"  Thet's  far  an'  squar,"  he  said.  "  D'ye  wanter  know 
whar  I  found  'em?  Tom  Dwillerby  never  knowed  I  hed 
more  than  a  envelope — an'  I  tuk  care  not  to  tell  hint  the 
name  that  was  writ  on  it.  Ye  was  mighty  smart  never  to 
let  no  one  know  yer  name;  I  don't  know  how  you  done  it, 
'ceptin'  that  ye  kept  so  much  to  yerselves." 

Latimer  remained  silent,  merely  standing  and  letting 
him  talk,  as  he  seemed  to  have  a  feverish,  half -delirious 
tendency  to  do.  He  lay  plucking  at  the  scanty  bed-cover- 
ing and  chuckling. 

"  'Twas  five  years  arter  the  child  was  born,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  was  ridin'  through  Blair's  Holler  an'  it  come  to  me  sud- 
den to  go  in  an'  hev  a  look  round  keerful.  I  looked  keer- 
ful — mighty  keerful — an'  at  last  I  went  on  my  hands  an' 
knees  an'  crawled  round,  an'  there  was  a  hole  between  the 
logs,  an'  I  seen  a  bit  of  white — I  couldn't  hev  seen  it  ef  I 
hadn't  been  crawlin'  an'  looked  up.  An'  I  dug  it  out.  It 
hed  been  hid  mighty  secret."  He  put  his  hand  under  his 
wretched  pillow.  "  Give  me  the  money,"  he  wheezed. 
"  When  ye  lay  it  in  my  hand  I'll  pass  the  envelope  over  to 
ye.  Count  it  out  first." 

Latimer  counted  the  bills.  This  was  the  moment. 
Twenty  years  gone  by — and  nothing  could  be  changed.  He 
put  the  money  on  the  bed. 

Stamps  withdrew  his  hand  from  under  the  pillow.  A 
stout,  ill-directed  envelope  was  in  its  grasp  and  he  passed 
it  over  to  Latimer.  He  was  shivering  and  beginning  to 
choke  a  little,  but  he  grinned. 

dirt 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  I  reckin'  it's  all  right/'  he  said.  "  D'ye  want  to  read 
?em  now?" 

"  No/'  Latimer  answered,  and  putting  them  in  his  breast- 
pocket walked  out  of  the  room. 

He  passed  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  avenue  where  the 
lamps  were  lighted  and  which  wore  its  usual  somewhat  de- 
serted evening  air.  He  walked  along  quietly  for  some  min- 
utes. He  did  not  quite  know  where  he  was  going.  Having 
left  a  line  for  Baird  explaining  his  absence,  he  had  time  to 
spare.  If  he  wished  to  be  alone, he  could  be  so  until  the  hour 
of  the  beginning  of  the  lecture.  For  certain  reasons  it  would 
be  necessary  that  he  should  see  Baird  before  he  went  upon 
the  platform.  Yes,  he  must  be  alone.  His  mood  required 
it.  He  would  go  somewhere  and  look  at  the  two  yellowed 
letters  written  twenty  years  ago.  He  did  not  know  why  it 
was  that  he  felt  he  must  look  at  them,  but  he  knew  he  must. 
They  would  satisfy  no  curiosity  if  he  felt  it,  and  he  had 
none.  Perhaps  it  was  the  old  tragic  tender  feeling  for 
Margery  which  impelled  him.  Perhaps  he  unconsciously 
longed  to  read  that  this  man  had  loved  her — that  she  had 
not  given  her  life  for  nothing — that  the  story  had  not 
been  one  of  common  caprice  and  common  treachery.  As 
he  walked  his  varied  thoughts  surged  through  his  brain  dis- 
connectedly. Every  now  and  then  he  involuntarily  put  his 
hand  to  his  breast-pocket  to  feel  the  envelope.  Once  there 
crossed  his  mind  a  memory  of  the  woman  whose  boy  had 
died  and  who  dare  not  let  herself  recall  him,  and  so  be  swept 
back  into  the  black  maelstrom  of  woe.  To-night,  with 
these  things  on  his  breast,  it  was  not  twenty  years  since  he 
had  heard  Margery's  dying  cries — it  was  last  night — last 
night — and  the  odour  of  the  pine-trees  was  in  his  nostrils 
»—the  sough  of  their  boughs  in  his  ears. 

4X7 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

He  stopped  near  the  entrance  to  the  grounds  of  the 
Smithsonian  Institute.  They  were  as  secluded  as  a  private 
park  at  this  time,  but  here  and  there  was  a  seat  and  a  light. 
He  turned  in  and  found  his  way  to  the  most  retired  part 
where  he  could  find  these  things — a  bench  to  sit  down  on, 
a  light  to  aid  him  to  read.  He  heard  his  own  breathing  as 
he  sat  down;  he  felt  the  heavy,  rapid  pulsations  of  his 
heart,  as  he  took  the  papers  from  his  breast  his  hand  was 
shaking,  he  could  not  hold  it  still.  He  took  out  more 
papers  than  the  envelope  Stamps  had  given  him.  He  drew 
forth  with  this  the  letter  which  had  arrived  from  Baird, 
and  which  he  had  been  reading  when  the  messenger  ar- 
rived. He  had  abstractedly  put  it  in  his  pocket.  It  fell 
from  his  shaking  hand  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet,  and 
he  let  it  lie  there,  forgetful  of  its  existence. 

Then  he  withdrew  the  two  letters  from  the  large  envelope 
and  opened  one  of  them. 

He  read  them  through  once — twice — three  times — four. 
Then  he  began  again.  He  had  read  them  a  dozen  times 
before  he  closed  them.  He  had  read  them  word  by  word, 
poring  over  each  character,  each  turn  of  phrase,  as  a  man 
might  pore  over  an  enigma  or  a  document  written  in  a 
foreign  language  of  which  he  only  knew  stray  words.  If 
his  hands  had  shaken  at  first,  he  had  not  turned  a  page 
before  his  whole  body  was  shaking  and  his  palms,  his  fore- 
head, his  hair  were  damp  with  cold  dew.  He  had  uttered 
one  sharp,  convulsed  exclamation  like  a  suffocated  cry — 
then  he  went  on  reading — reading — reading — and  shud- 
dering as  he  read.  They  were  not  long  letters,  but  after  he 
had  read  them  once  he  understood  them,  and  each  time  he 
read  them  again  he  understood  them  better.  Yes,  he  could 

418 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

translate  them.  They  were  the  farewells  of  a  man  tossed  by 
a  whirlwind  of  passionate  remorseful  grief.  The  child  had 
been  loved — her  very  purity  had  been  loved  while  she  had 
been  destroyed  and  deceived.  The  writer  poured  forth 
heart-sick  longing  and  heart-sick  remorse.  He  had  not  at 
first  meant  to  conceal  from  her  that  he  was  not  a  free  man 
— then  he  had  lost  control  over  his  very  being — and  he  had 
lost  his  soul.  When  she  had  discovered  the  truth  and  had 
not  even  reproached  him  but  had  stood  silent — without  a 
word — and  gazed  at  him  with  her  childish,  agonised,  blue- 
flower  eyes — he  had  known  that  if  men  had  souls  his  was 
damned.  There  was  no  pardon — he  could  ask  none — par- 
don would  not  undo — death  itself  would  not  undo  what  he 
had  done.  "Margery!  Margery!  Oh!  child — God  hear  me 
if  there  is  God  to  hear — I  loved  you — I  love  you — Death 
will  not  undo  that  either." 

He  was  going  abroad  to  join  his  wife.  He  spoke  of  the 
ship  he  sailed  on.  Latimer  knew  its  name  and  who  had 
sailed  in  it.  In  the  second  letter  he  besought  her  to  let 
him  see  and  speak  one  word  to  her — but  knew  she  would 
not  grant  his  prayer.  He  had  seen  her  in  the  street,  and 
had  not  dared  to  approach.  "  I  did  not  fear  what  a  man 
might  fear  from  other  women,"  he  wrote.  "  I  felt  that  it 
might  kill  you,  suddenly  to  see  me  near  when  you  could 
not  escape." 

And  after  he  had  read  it  a  third  time  Latimer  realised  a 
ghastly  truth.  The  man  who  wrote  had  gone  away  un- 
knowing of  the  blackness  of  the  tragedy  he  had  left  be- 
hind. He  plainly  had  not  known  the  secret  Death  itself 
had  helped  to  hide.  Perhaps  when  he  had  gone  Margery 
herself  had  not  known  the  worst. 

Latimer,  having  finished  his  reading,  rested  his  head  on 

419 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

his  hand  for  a  dull  moment  and  stared  down  at  the  letter 
lying  upon  the  ground  at  his  feet — the  letter  he  had  dropped 
as  he  took  out  the  others.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  not  strength 
or  inclination  to  pick  it  up — he  had  passed  through  a  black 
storm  which  had  swept  away  from  him  the  power  to  feel 
more  than  a  dull,  heavy,  physical  prostration. 

But  after  a  few  minutes  he  stooped  and  picked  the  letter 
up.  He  laid  it  on  his  knee  by  the  other  two  and  sat  gazing 
again. 

"  He  did  not  know,"  he  said,  in  a  colourless  voice.  "  I 
told  him.  He  heard  it  first  from  me  when  I  told  him  how 
she  died." 

The  handwriting  of  the  letters  was  Baird's — every  char- 
acter and  word  and  phrase  were  his — Baird  was  the  man 
who  had  written  them. 


439 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  street  in  which  the  lecture  hall  stood  began  to  wear 
the  air  of  being  a  centre  of  interest  some  time  before  the 
doors  of  the  building  were  opened.  People  who  had  not 
been  able  to  obtain  reserved  seats  wished  to  arrive  early. 
The  lectures  which  had  begun  by  being  popular  had  ended 
by  being  fashionable.  At  the  outset  an  audience  of  sober, 
religious  tendencies  had  attended  them,  but  after  the  first 
one  had  been  delivered  other  elements  had  presented  them- 
selves. There  had  been  a  sprinkling  of  serious  scientific 
men,  a  prominent  politician  or  so,  some  society  women 
whose  faces  and  toilettes  were  well-known  and  lavishly  de- 
scribed in  the  newspapers.  On  this  last  night  the  audience 
was  largely  of  the  fashionable  political  world.  Carriages 
drove  up  one  after  another  and  deposited  well-dressed  per- 
sons who  might  have  been  expected  that  night  to  appear 
at  certain  brilliant  social  functions,  and  who  had  come  to 
hear  "  Eepentance  "  instead. 

"  He  has  always  had  good  audiences,"  said  a  member  of 
the  Committee  of  Arrangement,  "  but  he  has  never  had 
one  like  this — in  Washington  at  least.  There  is  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  with  his  wife  and  daughter.  I  believe  the 
President  is  to  be  here.  He  has  awakened  an  enormous  in- 
terest. The  house  will  be  literally  crammed.  They  are 
filling  the  aisle  with  seats  already." 

Baird  was  in  the  small  retiring-room  which  had  been 
arranged  for  his  convenience.  His  journey  had  somewhat 

421 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

fatigued  him,  and  he  was  in  the  physical  and  mental  con- 
dition to  feel  glad  that  this  lecture  was  to  be  the  last  of  the 
series.  He  was  going  back  to  Willowfield,  though  he  was 
not  to  remain  there.  He  had  received  a  call  from  an  im- 
portant church  in  New  York  and  had  accepted  it.  He  was 
endeavouring  to  make  arrangements  that  Latimer  could  be 
near  him.  On  his  return  this  evening  he  had  found  a 
letter  he  had  been  expecting.  It  referred  to  Latimer,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  talk  it  over  with  him.  He  wished  he 
would  come  in,  and  felt  a  little  restless  over  his  delay, 
though  he  knew  they  would  have  time  to  say  but  few  words 
to  each  other  before  it  was  time  for  the  lecture  to  begin. 
He  walked  up  and  down  the  room  looking  down  at  the 
green  carpet  and  thinking,  his  thoughts  wandering  vaguely 
to  the  little  pursuant  of  the  herd  claim  and  the  letters  he 
had  wanted  to  deliver.  He  smiled  faintly,  remembering 
the  small  frame  in  the  over-large  clothes  and  the  bucolic 
countenance  with  its  over-sharpness  of  expression. 

The  member  of  the  committee  looked  into  the  room. 

"  They  are  beginning  to  turn  people  away  from  the 
doors,"  he  said.  "  Half  the  Cabinet  is  here — I  never  saw 
such  an  audience." 

As  he  went  away  smiling,  someone  passed  him  in  enter- 
ing the  room.  Baird,  who  was  smiling  also,  changed  his 
expression  of  courteous  appreciation  to  a  smile  of  greeting, 
for  the  man  who  had  entered  was  Latimer. 

He  advanced,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  he  began  to  say.  "I  wanted 
at  least  a  word  with  you  before  I  went  on." 

Then  his  smile  died  out,  leaving  blank  amazement  which 
a  breath's  space  later  was  alarmed  questioning.  He  re- 
called later  how  for  a  second  he  stood  and  stared.  Latimer's 

422 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

face  was  white  and  damp  with  sweat.  Its  lines  were  drawn 
and  sunken  deep.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man  before 
him  with  something  which  had  a  ghastly  resemblance  to 
an  unsteady  smile  which  was  not  a  smile  at  all.  He  looked 
as  if  illness — or  death — or  madness  had  struck  him.  He 
did  not  seem  a  sane  man,  and  yet  a  stillness  so  deadly  was 
expressed  by  his  whole  being  that  it  seemed  to  fill  the  small, 
neat,  business-like  green-room. 

Baird  strode  towards  him  and  seized  him  by  the  shoulder. 

"What  is  it?    What  is  it?    What  is  it  ?"  he  cried  out. 

Latimer's  face  did  not  alter  in  a  line.  He  fumbled 
stiffly  in  his  breast-pocket  and  held  out  some  pieces  of 
yellowed  letter-paper — this  being  done  stiffly,  too.  He 
spoke  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  It  seemed  to  search  every  corner 
of  the  room  and  echo  there. 

"  See!  "  he  said.  "  These  are  two  letters.  A  man  wrote 
them  to  a  poor,  half -mad  child  twenty  years  ago." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  member  of  the  committee 
looked  in  again,  radiant  with  exultation. 

"  The  audience  waiting  in  such  breathless  silence  that 
you  might  hear  a  pin  drop.  Two  thousand  of  them,  if 
there's  one.  Ten  minutes  to  eight." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Baird. 

The  door  closed  again  and  he  stood  looking  at  Latimer's 
rigid  hand  and  the  papers. 

"They  were  written  to  Margery,"  went  on  Latimer. 
"  Stamps  found  them  in  a  chink  in  the  logs.  She  had  hid- 
den them  there  that  she  might  take  them  out  and  sob  over 
and  kiss  them.  I  used  to  hear  her  in  the  middle  of  the 
night." 

Baird  snatched  them  from  his  hand.  He  fell  into  a  chair 
uear  the  table  and  dropped  his  face  upon  the  yellowed 

453 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

fragments,  pressing  them  against  his  lips  with  awful  sob- 
bing sounds,  as  if  he  would  wrest  from  them  the  kisses  the 
long-dead  girl  had  left  there. 

"  I,  too!  "  he  cried.    "  I,  too!    Oh!  my  God!  Margery!  " 

"  Don't  say  '  God! '  "  said  Latimer.  "  When  she  was  dy- 
ing, in  an  agony  of  fear,  she  said  it.  Not  that  word!  An- 
other! " 

He  said  no  other — and  Latimer  drew  nearer  to  him. 

"  You  wrote  them,"  he  said.  "  They  are  written  in  your 
hand — in  your  words — I  should  know  them  anywhere.  You 
may  deny  it.  I  could  prove  nothing.  I  do  not  want  to 
prove  anything.  Deny  it  if  you  will." 

Baird  rose  unsteadily.  The  papers  were  clutched  in  his 
hand.  His  face  was  marred  by  the  unnaturalness  of  a  man's 
tears. 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  deny  it?"  he  answered.  "It  is 
true.  I  have  sat  and  listened  to  your  talk  of  her  and 
thought  I  should  go  quite  mad.  You  have  told  me  of  her 
tortures,  and  I  have  listened.  I  did  not  know — surely  she 
did  not  know  herself — of  the  child — when  I  went  away.  It 
is  no  use  saying  to  you — how  should  it  be? — that  I  loved 
her — that  I  was  frenzied  by  my  love  of  her  innocent  sweet- 
ness!" 

"  No,  there  is  no  use,"  answered  Latimer,  in  a  voice  act- 
ually void  of  emotion,  "  but  I  daresay  it  is  true." 

"  There  is  no  use  in  calling  myself  by  any  of  the  names 
invented  for  the  men  who  bring  about  such  tragedies.  They 
are  true  of  some  men  perhaps,  but  they  were  not  true  of 
me.  I  don't  know  what  was  true  of  me.  Something  worse 
than  has  ever  been  put  into  words  perhaps,  for  I  loved  her 
and  I  have  loved  her  for  twenty  years.  I  would  have  given 
up  my  career — my  life,  anything  she  had  asked!  " 

424 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  But  when  she  found  you  had  acted  a  lie  to  her " 

"  It  seemed  to  fill  her  with  the  frantic  terror  of  a  child. 
I  dare  not  approach  her.  I  think  she  thought  she  would 
be  struck  dead  by  Heaven.  Great  God!  how  I  understood 
your  story  of  her  prayers.  And  it  was  I — it  was  I!  " 

He  turned  on  Latimer  with  a  kind  of  ferocity. 

"  You  have  crucified  me!  "  he  cried  out.  "  Let  that  com- 
fort you.  You  have  crucified  me  by  her  side,  that  I  might 
see  her  die — that  I  might  hear  her  low  little  piteous  voice — 
that  I  might  see  her  throes  and  terrors.  And  I  love  her — 
and  remember  every  look  of  her  loving  child's  eyes — every 
curve  and  quiver  of  her  mouth.  Through  all  the  years  I 
have  been  crucified,  knowing  I  had  earned  all  that  I  felt." 

Latimer  moved  across  the  room,  putting  the  table  be- 
tween them.  He  went  and  stood  by  the  mantel.  A  mur- 
mur of  impatient  applause  from  the  audience  came  through 
the  door. 

"  You  loved  her/'  he  said,  standing  with  his  hand  hold- 
ing something  in  his  breast.  "  And  I  loved  you.  She  was 
the  one  brightness  of  my  life  when  I  was  a  boy  and  you 
were  its  one  brightness  when  I  was  a  man.  You  gave  me 
a  reason  for  living.  I  am  not  the  kind  of  man  to  be  my 
own  reason.  I  needn't  tell  you  what  you  have  been  to  me. 
You  were  the  one  man  on  earth  I  dared  to  confess  to.  I 
knew  you  would  understand  and  that  you  knew  what  pity 
was." 

Baird  groaned  aloud.  He  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  fore- 
head with  his  handkerchief  as  he  listened. 

"  I  knew  you  were  the  one  man  I  could  trust.  I  could 
trust  you.  I  could  confide  in  you,  and  talk  to  you  about 
Margery.  One  day  you  said  to  me  that  you  had  learned  to 
love  her  and  that  we  might  have  been  brothers." 

425 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  When  I  was  left  free  I  had  but  one  thought,"  Baird 
said,  "to  return  to  her — to  atone,  so  far  as  atonement 
could  be — to  pray  of  her  upon  my  knees.  But  she  was 
dead — she  was  dead!  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  dead,  and  I  had  no  one  left  to  talk  to 
about  her.  You  were  my  one  comfort  and  support  and 
friend." 

He  drew  his  hand  out  of  his  breast.  Baird  started  and 
then  stood  quite  quiet.  The  hand  held  a  pistol. 

"Are  you  going  to  kill  me?"  he  said.  "You  know  I 
asked  you  that  once  before." 

"  No,"  said  Latimer,  "  I  am  not  going  to  kill  you.  I  am 
going  to  kill  the  man  who  loved  you,  and  found  you  his 
reason  for  living.  It's  all  done  with!  " 

"  No!  no!  "  shrieked  Baird,  and  he  hurled  himself  across 
the  table  like  a  madman.  "  No!  You  are  not!  No,  Lati- 
mer! No!  God!  No!" 

They  were  struggling  together — Baird  hung  to  his  arm 
and  tried  to  drag  the  pistol  from  his  grasp.  But  it  was  no 
use;  La  timer's  long,  ill-hung  limbs  were  the  stronger.  His 
fixed  face  did  not  change,  but  he  wrenched  himself  free 
and  flung  Baird  across  the  room.  He  set  the  pistol  against 
his  heart  and  pulled  the  trigger.  He  gave  something  like 
a  leap  and  fell  down. 

The  door  opened  for  the  returning  member  of  the  com- 
mittee and  the  impatient  applause  of  the  audience  came 
through  it  almost  a  roar. 

Baird  was  struggling  to  rise  as  if  his  fall  had  stunned 
him.  Latimer  was  stretched  at  full  length,  quite  dead. 


CHAPTEE  XL 

TOM  walked  up  the  staircase  pondering  deeply.  The  De 
Willoughby  claim  was  before  the  House.  Judge  Euther- 
ford  was  making  his  great  speech,  and  the  chief  claimant 
might  have  been  expected  to  be  sitting  breathless  in  one  of 
the  galleries.  But  he  was  not.  He  was  going  to  Baird, 
who  had  sent  for  him,  and  Baird  was  sitting  in  the  room  in 
which  Latimer  lay  dead  with  a  bullet  in  his  heart.  He  had 
been  sitting  there  for  hours,  and  when  Tom  had  arrived 
at  the  house  he  had  been  told  that  Baird  had  asked  that  he 
should  be  taken  to  him  in  the  death -chamber.  He  was 
sitting  on  a  chair  by  the  bed  on  which  Latimer  was  stretched, 
rigid  with  a  still  face$  which  looked  like  a  mask  of  yellow 
wax,  appearing  above  the  exceeding  freshness  of  the  turned- 
down  linen  sheet.  Baird  did  not  move  as  Tom  entered,  but 
continued  to  gaze  at  the  dread  thing  with  dull,  drooping 
eyes.  Tom  went  to  him  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
He  saw  the  man  was  stupefied. 

"  There's  nothing  to  say,  Baird,"  he  said  after  a  silence, 
"  when  it  comes  to  this." 

"  There  is  something  for  me  to  say,"  Baird  answered, 
very  quietly.  "  I  want  to  say  it  before  him,  while  he  lies 
there.  I  wonder  if  he  will  hear?  " 

"  He  may." 

"  It  would  not  do  any  good  to  anyone  if  he  did,"  Baird 
said.  "  The  blackness  of  it  all  lies  in  that — that  he  would 
not  be  helped,  she  would  not  be  helped — I  should  not." 

"  She?  "  said  Tom. 

427 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby   Claim 

Baird  got  up  at  once,  stiffly  and  unsteadily.  He  stood 
upright,  the  lithe-limbed  slender  form,  which  was  so  much 
admired  upon  the  platform,  held  rigidly.  His  face  looked 
lined  and  haggard. 

"  No  other  man  shall  feel  an  affection  for  me — I  think 
you  are  beginning  to  feel  an  affection  for  me — under  a 
false  impression.  That  man  loved  me  for  long  years,  and 
I  loved  him.  I  think  I  helped  him  to  something  that  was 
as  near  happiness  as  his  nature  would  allow  him  to  feel. 
God  knows  I  owed  it  to  him.  I  was  one  of  those  who  re- 
pented too  late.  That  is  why  I  have  preached  of  repentance. 
I  have  done  it  with  a  secret,  frenzied  hope." 

"  Did  he  know  your  reason?  "  asked  Tom. 

"  Not  until  last  night.  When  he  knew  it,  he  killed  him- 
eelf." 

"  Because — ?  "  began  Tom. 

"  Because  he  had  loved  and  trusted  me  for  half  a  life- 
time— because  I  was  the  one  human  creature  to  whom  he 
had  confided  the  tragedy  of  his  life — knowing  he  would 
be  sure  of  comprehension  and  sympathy.  It  was  to  me  he 
poured  forth  the  story  of  that  poor  child.  You  saw  her 
die.  She  was  his  sister.  And  I " 

Tom  turned  and  looked  at  the  face  of  the  dead  man  and 
then,  slowly,  to  the  face  of  the  living  one,  who  stood  be- 
fore him. 

"  You — were  the  man?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

Tom  turned  to  the  dead  man  again.  He  put  his  big, 
warm  hand  with  a  curiously  suggestive  movement — a 
movement  somehow  suggesting  protection — upon  the  stiff, 
clasped  fingers. 

"  No,  poor  fellow!  "  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  him.  "  You 

428 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

—no,  no,  there  was  nothing  but  this — for  you.  God  have 
mercy  on  us." 

"  No,"  said  Baird,  "  there  was  nothing  else  for  him.  I 
know  that.  Everything  was  whirled  away.  I  had  hours 
last  night  thinking  there  is  nothing  else  for  me.  Perhaps 
there  is  not.  But  first  I  shall  take  his  body  back  to  his 
mother.  I  must  tell  her  lies.  This  is  the  result  of  an  ac- 
cident. That  is  what  I  shall  tell  her.  She  is  a  little  old 
woman  who  will  not  live  long.  I  must  take  care  of  her — 
and  let  her  talk  to  me  about  her  son  who  loved  me — and 
her  daughter." 

He  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room. 

"A  man  does  not  live — for  fifteen  years — side  by  side 
with  another — that  other  loving  him  wholly — and  see  the 
blackness  of  his  own  deed  laid  bare — and  hear  again  and 
again  of  the  woe  he  has  wrought — he  does  not  live  so  in 
peace." 

"  No,"  answered  Tom. 

"  I  tell  you — "  wildly — "  I  tell  you  there  have  been  hours 
— as  he  has  talked  to  me  of  her — when  the  cold  sweat  has 
stood  upon  my  flesh." 

He  came  back  to  Tom.  He  was  frantic  with  agonised 
restlessness. 

"  In  all  the  cruelty  of  it,"  he  cried,  "  there  seems  to  have 
been  one  human  pitying  soul.  It  was  yours.  You  were 
tender  to  her  in  those  last  hours.  You  were  merciful — 
you  held  her  hand  when  she  died." 

"  Yes,"  said  Tom,  in  a  somewhat  husky  voice,  since  he 
remembered  it  so  well,  "  she  was  frightened.  Her  little 
hand  was  cold.  I  took  it  in  mine  and  told  her  not  to  be 
afraid." 

Baird  flung  out  his  own  hand  with  a  movement  of  pas- 
sionate feeling — then  let  it  fall  at  his  side. 

A9Q 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

"  We  shall  not  meet*  again,"  he  said,,  "  you  will  not  want 
to  see  me." 

Big  Tom  gave  him  a  long,  steady  look. 

"  Good  Lord,  man!  "  he  said,  after  it,  "  am  I  the  man  to 
judge  another?  I've  made  nothing  of  life." 

"  You  have  done  no  creature  a  wrong,"  Baird  said.  "  And 
you  have  helped  some  to  happiness." 

"  Well,"  admitted  Big  Tom,  "  perhaps  that's  true.  But 
I've  been  a  lumbering  failure  myself.  Fve  just  judgment 
enough  now  to  know  that  there's  nothing  a  man  can  say 
about  a  thing  like  this — nothing — and  just  sense  enough 
not  to  try  to  say  it." 

"  If  you  go  back  to  North  Carolina,"  asked  Baird,  "  may 
I  come  to  see  you — and  to  see  her?  She  need  never  know." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  her  to  know,"  Tom  answered,  "  but 
you  may  come.  We  shall  go  back,  and  I  intend  to  let  those 
two  young  ones  set  up  a  Garden  of  Eden  of  their  own.  It 
will  be  a  good  thing  to  look  on  at.  Yes,  you  may  come." 

"  That  is  mercifulness,"  said  Baird,  and  this  time  when 
he  put  out  his  hand  he  did  not  withdraw  it,  and  Tom  gave 
it  a  strong,  sober  clasp  which  expressed  more  than  one 
emotion. 


When  Tom  returned  to  the  little  house  near  Dupont 
Circle,  Uncle  Matt  wore  a  rigidly  repressed  air  as  he  opened 
the  door,  and  Miss  Burford  stood  in  the  hall  as  if  waiting 
for  something.  Her  ringlets  were  shaken  by  a  light  tremor. 

i(  We  have  either  won  the  claim  this  afternoon  or  lost  it," 
Tom  said  to  himself,  having  glanced  at  both  of  them  and 
exchanged  the  usual  greeting. 

They  had  won  it. 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

Judge  Rutherford  was  striding  up  and  down  the  sitting- 
room,  but  it  was  Sheba  who  was  deputed  to  tell  the  news. 

She  did  it  in  a  little  scene  which  reminded  him  of  her 
childhood.  She  drew  him  to  a  chair  and  sat  down  on  his 
knee,  clasping  both  slim,  tender  arms  round  his  neck,  tears 
suddenly  rushing  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  and  Rupert  are  rich  men,  Uncle  Tom,  darling," 
she  said.  "  The  claim  has  passed.  You  are  rich.  You 
need  never  be  troubled  about  mortgages  again." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  tremendous  shock  of  relief.  He 
folded  her  in  his  arms  as  if  she  had  been  a  baby. 

"  Thank  the  Lord!  "  he  said.  "  I  didn't  know  I  should 
be  so  glad  of  it/' 


481 


CHAPTER   XLI 

THE  unobtrusive  funeral  cortege  had  turned  the  corner 
of  Bank  Street  and  disappeared  from  view  almost  an  hour 
ago.  In  the  front  room  of  the  house  in  which  had  lived 
the  man  just  carried  to  his  grave,  the  gentle  old  woman 
who  had  been  his  mother  sat  and  looked  with  pathetic 
patience  at  Miss  Amory  Starkweather  as  the  rough  winds 
of  the  New  England  early  spring  rushed  up  the  empty 
thoroughfare  and  whirled  through  the  yet  unleafed  trees. 
Miss  Amory  had  remained  after  the  other  people  had  gone 
away,  and  she  was  listening  to  the  wind,  too. 

"We  are  both  old  women,"  she  had  said.  "We  have 
both  lived  long  enough  to  have  passed  through  afternoons 
like  this  more  than  once  before.  Howsoever  bad  other  hours 
may  be,  it  seems  to  me  that  these  are  always  the  worst." 

"Just  after — everything — has  been  taken  away,"  Mrs. 
Latimer  said  now;  "the  house  seems  so  empty.  Faith," 
tremulously,  "  even  Faith  can't  help  you  not  to  feel  that 
everything  has  gone — such  a  long,  long  way  off." 

She  did  not  wipe  away  the  tear  that  fell  on  her  cheek. 
She  looked  very  small  and  meek  in  her  deep  mourning.  She 
presented  to  Miss  Amory's  imagination  the  figure  of  a  lov- 
able child  grown  old  without  having  lost  its  child  tem- 
perament. 

"  But  I  must  not  complain,"  she  went  on,  with  an  effort 
to  smile  at  Miss  Amory's  ugly  old  intelligently  sympathetic 
countenance.  "It  must  have  been  all  over  in  a  second, 
and  he  could  have  felt  no  pain  at  all.  Death  by  accident 

432 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

is  always  an  awful  shock  to  those  left  behind;  but  it  must 
scarcely  be  like  death  to — those  who  go.  He  was  quite 
well;  he  had  just  bought  the  pistol  and  took  it  out  to 
show  to  Mr.  Baird.  Mr.  Baird  himself  did  not  understand 
how  it  happened." 

"  It  is  nearly  always  so — that  no  one  quite  sees  how 
it  is  done,"  Miss  Amory  answered.  "Do  not  let  yourself 
think  of  it." 

She  was  sitting  quite  near  to  Mrs.  Latimer,  and  she  leaned 
forward  and  put  her  hand  over  the  cold,  little,  shrivelled 
one  lying  on  the  lap  of  the  mourning-dress. 

"  Though  it  was  so  sudden,"  she  said,  "  it  was  an  end 
not  unlike  Margery's — the  slipping  out  of  life  without  real- 
ising that  the  last  hour  had  come." 

"  Yes;  I  have  thought  that,  too." 

She  looked  up  at  the  portrait  on  the  wall — the  portrait 
of  the  bright  girl-face.  Her  own  face  lighted  into  a  smile. 

"  It  is  so  strange  to  think  that  they  are  together  again," 
she  said.  "  They  will  have  so  much  to  tell  each  other." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Amory;   "  yes." 

She  got  up  herself  and  went  and  stood  before  the  picture. 
Mrs.  Latimer  rose  and  came  and  stood  beside  her. 

"  Mr.  Baird  has  been  with  me  every  day,"  she  said.  "  He 
has  been  like  a  son  to  me." 

A  carriage  drew  up  before  the  house,  and,  as  the  occu- 
pant got  out,  both  women  turned  to  look. 

Mrs.  Latimer  turned  a  shade  paler. 

"  They  have  got  back  from  the  funeral,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  Mr.  Baird." 

Then  came  the  ring  at  the  front  door,  the  footsteps  in 
the  passage,  and  Baird  came  into  the  room.  He  was  hag- 
gard and  looked  broken  and  old,  but  his  manner  was  very 

433 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

gentle  when  he  went  to  the  little  old  woman  and  took 
her  hands. 

"  I  think  he  scarcely  knew  he  had  so  many  friends  at 
Janney's  Mills,"  he  said.  "A  great  many  of  them  came. 
When  I  turned  away  the  earth  was  covered  with  flowers." 

He  drew  her  to  a  chair  and  sat  by  her.  She  put  her 
white  head  on  his  arm  and  cried. 

"  He  was  always  so  sad,"  she  said.  "  He  thought  people 
never  cared  for  him.  But  he  was  good — he  was  good.  I 
felt  sure  they  must  love  him  a  little.  It  will  be  better  for 
him — now" 

Miss  Amory  spoke  from  her  place  before  the  fire,  where 
she  stood  rigidly,  with  a  baffled  look  on  her  face.  Her 
voice  was  low  and  hoarse. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  eager  pitifulness.  "It  will  be 
better  now." 

The  little  mother  lifted  her  wet  face,  still  clinging  to 
Baird's  arm  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  And  I  have  it  to  remember,"  she  sobbed,  "  that  you — 
you  were  his  friend,  and  that  for  years  you  made  him 
happier  than  he  had  ever  been.  He  said  you  gave  him 
a  reason  for  living." 

Baird  was  ashen  pale.  She  stooped  and  softly  kissed  the 
back  of  his  hand. 

"  Somehow,"  she  said,  "  you  seemed  even  to  comfort  him 
for  Margery.  He  seemed  to  bear  it  better  after  he  knew 
you.  I  shall  not  feel  as  if  they  were  quite  gone  away  from 
me  while  I  can  talk  to  you  about  them.  You  will  spare 
an  hour  now  and  then  to  come  and  sit  with  me?"  She 
looked  round  the  plain,  respectable  little  room  with  a  quiet 
finality.  "  I  am  too  old  and  tired  to  live  long,"  she  added. 

It  was  Baird  who  kissed  her  hand  now,  with  a  fervour 
434 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

almost  passion.    Miss  Amory  started  at  sight  of  his  action, 
and  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  in  which  he  spoke. 

"  Talk  to  me  as  you  would  have  talked  to  him,"  he  said. 
"  Think  of  me  as  you  would  have  thought  of  him.  Let 
me — in  God's  name,  let  me  do  what  there  is  left  me! " 


Miss  Amory's  carriage  had  waited  before  the  gate,  and 
when  she  went  out  to  it  Baird  went  with  her. 

After  he  had  put  her  into  it  he  stood  a  moment  on  the 
pavement  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  want  to  come  with  you,"  he  said.    "May  I?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  made  room  for  him  at  her 
side. 

But  he  took  the  seat  opposite  to  her  and  leaned  back, 
shutting  his  eyes  while  Miss  Amory's  rested  upon  him. 
The  life  and  beauty  which  had  been  such  ever-present  char- 
acteristics of  his  personality  seemed  to  have  left  him  never 
to  return.  Miss  Amory's  old  nerves  were  strung  taut.  She 
had  passed  through  many  phases  of  feeling  with  regard  to 
him  as  the  years  had  gone  by.  During  those  years  she 
had  believed  that  she  knew  a  hidden  thing  of  him  known 
by  no  other  person.  She  had  felt  herself  a  sort  of  silent 
detective  in  the  form  of  an  astute  old  New  England  gen- 
tlewoman. She  had  abhorred  and  horribly  pitied  him. 
She  had  the  clear  judicial  mind  which  must  inevitably  see 
the  tragic  pitifulness  of  things.  She  had  thought  too  much 
to  be  able  to  indulge  in  the  primitive  luxury  of  unqualified 
condemnation.  As  she  watched  him  to-day  during  their 
drive  through  the  streets,  she  realised  that  she  beheld  a 
kind  of  suffering  not  coming  under  the  head  of  any  ordi- 
nary classification.  It  was  a  hopeless,  ghastly  thing,  a 

135 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

breaking  up  of  life,  a  tearing  loose  of  all  the  cords  to  which 
a  man  might  anchor  his  existence. 

When  they  reached  the  house  and  entered  the  parlour, 
she  went  to  her  chair  and  sat  down — and  waited.  She 
knew  she  was  waiting,  and  believed  she  knew  what  for. 
In  a  vague  way  she  had  always  felt  that  an  hour  like  this 
would  come  to  them.  They  were  somehow  curiously  ,ikin. 
Baird  began  to  walk  to  and  fro.  His  lips  were  trembling. 
Presently  he  turned  towards  the  rigid  figure  in  the  chair 
and  stood  still. 

"  It  was  not  an  accident,"  he  said.    "  He  killed  himself." 

"  That  I  felt  sure  of,"  Miss  Amory  answered.  "  Tell 
me  why  he  did  it." 

Baird  began  to  tremble  a  little  himself. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  he  said.  "  I  must.  I  suppose — there  is 
a  sort  of  hysteric  luxury  in — confession.  He  did  it  because 
there  was  nothing  else  left.  The  foundations  of  his  world 
had  been  torn  from  under  his  feet.  Everything  was  gone." 
His  voice  broke  into  a  savage  cry.  "  Oh!  in  one  short  life- 
time— the  black  misery  a  man  can  bring  about!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Amory. 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  near  her. 

"  For  years — years,"  he  said,  "  he  hid  a  secret." 
Miss  Amory  bent  forward.     She  felt  she  must  help  him 
a  little — for  pity's  sake. 

"  Was  it  the  secret  of  Margery?  "  she  half  whispered. 

"Did  you  know  it?" 

"  When  a  woman  has  spent  a  long  life  alone,  thinking — 
thinking,"  she  answered,  "she  has  had  time  to  learn  to 
observe  and  to  work  at  problems.  The  day  she  fainted  in 
the  street  and  I  took  her  home  in  my  carriage,  I  began 
to  fear — to  guess.  She  was  not  only  a  girl  who  was  ill — • 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

she  was  a  child  who  was  being  killed  with  some  horror; 
she  was  heart-breaking.  I  used  to  go  and  see  her.  In 
the  end  I  knew." 

"  I — did  not/5  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  haggard  eyes. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  She  knew  he  had  told  her  all 
in  the  one  sentence — all  she  had  guessed. 

"  She  did  not  know  I  knew,"  she  went  on,  presently. 
"  She  believed  no  one  knew.  Oh,  I  tell  you  again,  she  was 
heart-breaking!  She  did  not  know  that  there  were  wild 
moments  when  she  dropped  words  that  could  be  linked 
into  facts  and  formed  into  a  chain." 

"  Had  you  formed  it,"  he  asked,  "  when  you  wrote  and 
told  me  she  had  died?" 

"  Yes.  It  had  led  me  to  you — to  nothing  more.  I  felt 
death  had  saved  her  from  what  would  have  been  worse.  It 
seemed  as  if — the  blackest  devil — would  be  glad  to  know." 

"  I  am  the  blackest  devil,  perhaps,"  he  said,  with  stony 
helplessness,  "  but  when  I  received  your  letter  I  was  grov- 
elling on  my  knees  praying  that  I  might  get  back  to  her 
— and  atone — as  far  as  a  black  devil  could." 

"  And  she  was  dead,"  said  Miss  Amory,  wringing  her 
hands  together  on  her  lap;  "  dead — dead." 

She  stopped  suddenly  and  turned  on  him.  "  Pie  killed 
himself,"  she  cried,  "  because  he  found  out  that  it  was 
you!" 

"  Yes.  I  was  the  one  man  he  loved — he  had  told  his 
secret  to  me — to  me! — the  black  devil.  Now — now  I  must 
go  to  his  mother,  day  after  day,  and  be  her  son — because 
I  was  his  friend — and  knew  his  love  for  Margery — and  of 
her  sweetness — and  her  happy,  peaceful  death.  He  used 
to  talk  to  me  for  hours;  she — poor,  tender  soul — will  talk 

43? 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

te  me  again — of  Margery — Margery — Margery — and  of  LU- 
ciftn,  whose  one  happiness  I  was." 

"It,  will  —  almost  —  be  —  enough/'  said  Miss  Amory, 
slowly. 

"  Yes/'  he  answered;  "  it  will  almost  be  enough — even 
for  a  black  devil." 

And  he  turned  on  his  chair  and  laid  his  face  on  his 
folded  arms  and  sobbed  like  a  woman. 


435 


CHAPTER   XLIl 

THE  springtime  sunshine  had  been  smiling  upon  Talbot's 
Cross-roads  all  the  day.  It  was  not  hot,  but  warm,  and  its 
beauty  was  added  to  by  the  little  soft  winds  which  passed 
through  the  branches  of  the  blossoming  apple  and  pear 
trees  and  shook  the  fragrance  from  them.  The  brown  earth 
was  sweet  and  odorous,  as  it  had  been  on  the  Sunday  morn- 
ing Sheba  had  knelt  and  kissed  it,  and  the  garden  had 
covered  itself,  as  then,  with  hyacinths  and  daffodils  and 
white  narcissus. 

During  the  last  weeks  the  Cross-roads  had  existed  in 
something  like  a  state  of  delirium.  People  rode  in  from 
the  mountains  and  returned  to  their  homes  after  hours 
of  conversation,  semi-stupefied  with  enjoyment.  Tom 
D'Willerby  had  won  his  claims.  After  months  of  mysti- 
fied discouragement,  in  which  the  Cross-roads  seemed  to 
have  lost  him  in  a  vague  and  distant  darkness,  life  had 
seemed  to  begin  again.  Nobody  was  sufficiently  analytical 
of  mind  to  realise  in  what  measure  big  Tom  D'Willerby  had 
been  the  centre  of  the  community,  which  was  scattered  over 
miles  of  mountain  road  and  wood  and  clearing.  But  when 
he  had  disappeared  many  things  seemed  to  melt  away  with 
him.  In  fact,  a  large,  shrewd  humanity  was  missing. 

"  I'll  be  doggered,"  had  been  a  remark  of  Mr.  Doty's 
in  the  autumn,  "  ef  crops  hes  done  es  well  sence  he  went." 

There  had  been  endless  talk  of  the  villanous  tendencies 
of  Government  officials,  and  of  the  tricks  played  whose 

439 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

end  was  to  defraud  honest  and  long-suffering  claimants  of 
their  rights.  There  had  even  been  dark  hours  when  it 
had  seemed  possible  that  the  vitiating  effect  of  Washington 
life  might  cause  deterioration  in  the  character  of  even  the 
most  upright.  Could  Tom  himself  stand  it,  and  what  would 
be  its  effect  on  Sheba? 

But  when  the  outlook  was  the  most  inauspicious, 
Fortune's  wheel  had  swept  round  once  and  all  was 
changed. 

A  letter  brought  the  news — a  simple  enough  letter  from 
Tom  himself.  The  claim  was  won.  They  were  coming 
back  to  Hamlin  County,  he  and  Sheba  and  Rupert  De 
Willoughby.  Sheba  and  Rupert  were  to  be  married  and 
spend  the  first  weeks  of  their  honeymoon  on  the  side  of 
the  mountain  which  had  enclosed  the  world  the  child 
Sheba  had  first  known. 

On  this  particular  day  every  man  and  woman  who  had 
known  and  played  with  her  appeared  at  the  Cross-roads. 
There  had  not  been  a  large  number  of  them  perhaps,  but 
gathered  together  at  and  about  the  Post-office  and  about 
the  house  and  garden,  they  formed  a  crowd,  as  crowds 
are  counted  in  scattered  communities.  They  embodied  ex- 
citement enough  to  have  exhilarated  a  much  larger  body 
of  people.  Half  a  dozen  women  had  been  helping  Aunt 
Mornin  for  days.  The  house  wore  a  gala  air,  and  the 
cellar  was  stored  with  offerings  of  cake  and  home-made 
luxuries.  The  garden  was  a  mass  of  radiant  scented  bloom 
of  spring.  Mis'  Doty  sat  at  the  open  window  of  the  kitchen 
and,  looking  out  on  nodding  daffodils,  apple-blossom,  and 
pink  peach-flower  warmed  in  the  sun,  actually  chuckled 
as  she  joyfully  sniffed  the  air. 

"  The  way  them  things  smells,"  she  said,  "  an'  the  hum- 
440 


In   Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

min'  o'  them  bees  goin'  about  as  ef  the  world  hadn't  nothin' 
but  flowers  an'  honey  in  it,  seems  like  it  was  all  jest  got 
up  for  them  two  young  uns.  Lordy,  I  do  declar',  it's  a 
plum  sight." 

"  That  bin  a  heap  got  up  for  'em,  seems  like,"  said 
Molly  Hollister,  smiling  at  the  nearest  apple-tree  as  if  it 
were  a  particular  friend.  "Fust  off,  they're  dead  in  love 
with  each  other,  an'  we  uns  all  knows  how  that  makes 
people  feel — even  in  the  dead  o'  winter,  an'  when  they 
ain't  a  penny  in  their  pockets;  they're  as  good-hearted 
as  they  kin  be — an'  es  hansum' — an'  they're  rich,  an'  they 
was  married  this  mornin',  an'  they're  comin'  home  with 
Tom  D'Willerby  to  a  place  an'  folks  that  loves  'em — an' 
the  very  country  an'  the  things  that  grows  seems  as  if 
they  was  dressed  out  for  a  weddin'.  An'  it's  Sheba  as 
Tom  took  me  to  look  at  lyin'  in  her  little  old  wooden 
cradle  in  the  room  behind  the  store." 

She  laughed,  as  she  said  it,  a  little  hysteric  laugh,  with 
suddenly  moist  eyes.  She  was  an  emotional  creature. 

The  road  had  been  wTatched  steadily  for  many  hours  be- 
fore any  arrival  could  have  been  legitimately  expected.  It 
gave  restless  interest — something  to  do.  At  noon  one  of 
Molly  Hollister's  boys  came  running  breathlessly  up  the 
road,  waving  his  hat. 

"They're  a-comin'!"  he  shouted.  "They're  a-comin'! 
They're  in  a  fine  carriage." 

"  Let  Tom  D'Willerby  alone  for  havin'  the  finest  team 
in  Hamlin,"  said  Mr.  Doty,  with  a  neighbourly  grin. 

Almost  immediately  the  carriage  was  to  be  seen.  The 
horses  lifted  their  feet  high,  and  stepped  at  a  pace  which 
was  felt  worthy  of  the  occasion.  Uncle  Matt  drove.  Ru- 
pert and  Sheba  sat  side  by  side.  They  looked  very  young 

441 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

and  beautiful,  and  rather  shy.  They  had  only  been  married 
a  few  hours,  and  were  bewildered  by  the  new  radiance  of 
things.  Big  Tom  humanely  endeavoured  not  to  look  at 
them,  but  found  it  difficult  to  avert  his  eyes  for  any  length 
of  time.  There  was  that  about  them  which  drew  his  gaze 
back  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  That's  old  Tom! "  he  heard  familiar  voices  pro- 
claim, as  they  drew  near  the  Post-office.  "  Howdy, 
Tom!  Howdy,  Sheby!  Wish  ye  much  joy!  Wish  ye  much 
joy!" 

Then  the  horses  stopped,  and  the  crowd  of  long-known 
faces  surged  near  and  were  all  about  the  carriage.  The 
clamour  of  the  greeting  voices,  the  grasping  of  one  hand 
after  another  seemed  to  Sheba  and  Rupert  like  something 
happening  in  a  dream.  They  were  too  far  away  from 
earth  to  feel  it  real  just  now,  though  it  was  part  of  the 
happiness  of  things — like  the  sunshine  and  the  soft  wind 
and  the  look  in  Tom's  eyes,  when,  amid  hand-shakes 
and  congratulations,  and  welcoming  laughter,  he  himself 
laughed  back  in  his  old  way. 

"  Ye  look  jest  like  ye  used  ter,  Tom — jest  like  ye  used 
ter,"  cried  Jake  Doty.  "  Ye  hain't  changed  a  durned  bit!  " 


How  did  the  day  pass?  Who  knows?  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? It  was  full  of  strange  beauty,  and  strange  happiness, 
and  strange  life  for  two  young  souls  at  least.  People  came 
and  went,  congratulating,  wondering,  rejoicing.  Talbot's 
Cross-roads  felt  that  it  had  vicariously  come  into  the  pos- 
session of  wealth  and  dignity  of  position.  Among  the 
many  visitors,  Mrs.  Stamps  rode  up  on  a  clay-bank  mare. 
She  was  attired  in  the  black  calico  riding-skirt  and  sun- 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

bonnet  which  represented  the  mourning  garb  of  the  moun- 
tain relict. 

"  Fm  a  widder,"  she  said  to  big  Tom,  in  a  tone  not  un- 
resigned.  "  Ye  got  yer  claim  through,  but  Stamps  hadn't 
no  influence,  an'  he  was  took  off  by  pneumony.  Ketched 
cold  runnin'  to  Linthicum,  I  guess.  His  landlady  was  a 
honest  enough  critter.  She  found  a  roll  o'  five  hundred 
dollars  hid  in  his  bed  when  she  went  to  lay  him  out,  an' 
she  sent  it  back  to  me.  Lord  knows  whar  he  got  it  from — 
I  don't.  But  it  come  in  mighty  handy." 

By  sunset  the  welcoming  crowd  had  broken  up  and 
melted  away  into  the  mountains.  Horses  and  ox-waggons 
had  been  mounted  and  ridden  or  driven  homeward.  The 
Post-office  was  closed;  no  one  was  to  be  seen  in  the  porch. 
No  one  was  to  be  seen  anywhere  except  in  the  garden  among 
the  blossoms  where  Ruport  and  Sheba  walked  under  the 
fragrance  of  the  trees,  talking  to  each  other  in  low,  softly 
broken  words. 

Tom  sat  in  the  porch  and  watched  the  moon  rise  in 
a  sea  of  silver.  The  scents  the  wind  wafted  to  him,  the 
occasional  sound  of  a  far-off  night-bird,  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves  brought  things  back  to  him — things  he  had  felt  in 
his  youth.  There  had  been  nights  like  this  in  the  days 
when  he  had  been  a  big,  clumsy  young  fellow,  wild  with 
hopeless  love  for  Delia  Vanuxem.  On  such  nights  the  air 
had  been  full  of  this  night  breath  of  flowers,  the  birds  had 
stirred  in  their  nests  with  just  such  sounds,  the  moon  had 
mounted,  as  it  did  to-night,  higher  and  higher  in  a  sky 
it  thrilled  a  man's  soul  to  lift  his  face  to. 

"Yes,  it  was  all  like  this,"  he  said,  leaning  back  and 
clasping  his  big  hands  behind  his  head.  "  Just  like  this! 
And  those  two  out  there  are  living  it  over  again,  only  they've 

443 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

been  fairly  treated,,  and  they  are  tremliliiig  with  the  joy 
of  it.  They're  pretty  safe."  he  ended.  "  They're  pretty 
safe.  They've  had  a  fair  ehcw.'* 

Rupert  and  Sheha  walked  slowly  side  by  side.  They  saw 
and  felt  everything.  If  a  bird  stirred  with  a  sleepy  sound, 
they  stopped  to  listen  and  smiled  tremulously  at  each  other. 
More  than  once  Sheba  knelt  down  and  hid  her  face  among 
the  flowers,  kissing  them.  Her  arms  were  full  of  white 
blossoms.  She  and  Rupert  had  made  white  garlands  for 
her  hair  and  waist,  such  as  she  had  worn  the  night  he  had 
first  seen  her  standing  on  her  little  balcony.  When  Rupert 
held  her  to  his  side,  the  scent  from  their  crushed  petals 
filled  the  air  they  breathed.  The  early  night  was  at  its 
stillest  and  fairest,  and  the  moonlight  seemed  to  flood  all 
the  world,  when  Sheba  stopped  and  looked  up,  speaking 
softly: 

"  Shall  we  go  now?  "  she  said.  "  The  moon  will  be  shin- 
ing down  between  the  pines.  It  will  be  so  quiet." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.    "  Let  us  go  now." 

They  had  planned  weeks  ago  the  things  they  were  going 
to  do.  .They  were  going  to  say  good-night  to  the  small 
mound  at  Blair's  Hollow. 

When  they  left  their  horses  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  even 
the  pines  could  not  look  darkly  under  the  fair  light.  The 
balmy  air  passing  through  their  branches  made  a  sound 
as  if  it  was  hushing  a  child  to  sleep. 

The  little  mound  lay  in  the  soft  brightness  of  clear  moon- 
beams. Sheba  knelt  beside  it  and  began  to  lay  her  bridal 
blossoms  on  the  grass-covered  earth.  Rupert  stood  and 
watched  her.  His  heart  beat  with  a  reverent,  rapturous 
tremor.  She  looked  like  a  young  angel. 

She  bent  clown  and  laid  her  cheek  upon  the  grass;  her 
444 


In  Connection  with 

The  De  Willoughby  Claim 

arm  was  thrown  out  as  if  she  clasped  something  to  her 
girl's  breast.  She  spoke  in  a  whisper — thrilled  with  love. 
"  I  am  happy/'  she  said.  "  I  am  happy.  Oh,  do  you  hear? 
Do  you  hear?  " 

THE   END. 


445 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-25m-6,'66(G3855s4)458 


N°   477039 

Burnett,   F.H. 

In  connection  with 
De  Willoughby  claim. 


PS1214 

16 


the 


LIBRARY 

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DAVIS 


iWEINSTOCK.j 
jLUBIN&Co.i 


